•Bv'  BoNAi-D 


-  hnnk  is  DUE  on 


,   STATE  NORMAL  SCHOOL, 


KEVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 


DON0  G.    MITCHELL 


//PC, 


REVERIES 


A    BACHELOR 


A   BOOK  OF  THE  HEART: 


BY  IK  MARVEL. 


It  is  worth,  the  labor— saith  PLOTINUS— to  consider  well  of  Love,  whetlier 
it  be  a  God,  or  a  divell,  or  passion  of  the  minde,  or  partly  God,  parity 
divell,  partly  passion. — BURTON'S  ANATOMY  OF  MELANCHOLY,  Part  IIL 
Sec.  I. 


NEW  AND   REVISED   EDITION 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1886 


COPYRIGHT,  7850,  f863,  7878,  788S 

Br  DONALD  G.  MITCHELL 


TROWS 

TINO  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMMKV, 
NEW  YORK. 


TO 
ONE  AT  HOME, 

IN  WHOM  ARE  MET  SO  MANY  OF  THE  GRAVES 

AND  THE  VIRTUES,  OF  WHICH  AS 

BACHELOR  I  DREAMED. 


ORIGINAL    PREFACE. 


*  I  ^HIS  book  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  it  pretends 
-*-  to  be  :  it  is  a  collection  of  those  floating  Rever 
ies  which  have,  from  time  to  time,  drifted  across  my 
brain.  I  never  yet  met  with  a  bachelor  who  had  not  his 
share  of  just  such  floating  visions  ;  and  the  only  differ 
ence  between  us  lies  in  the  fact  that  I  have  tossed  them 
from  me  in  the  shape  of  a  Book. 

If  they  had  been  worked  over  with  more  unity  of 
design,  I  dare  say  I  might  have  made  a  respectable 
novel ;  as  it  is,  I  have  chosen  the  honester  way  of  set 
ting  them  down  as  they  came  seething  from  my  thought, 
with  all  their  crudities  and  contrasts,  uncovered. 

As  for  the  truth  that  is  in  them,  the  world  may  be 
lieve  what  it  likes ;  for  having  written  to  humor  the 
world,  it  would  be  hard  if  I  should  curtail  any  of  its 
privileges  of  judgment.  I  should  think  there  was  as 
much  truth  in  them  as  in  most  Reveries. 


viii  ORIGINAL   PREFACE. 

The  first  story  of  the  book  has  already  had  some 
publicity  ;  and  the  criticisms  upon  it  have  amused  and 
pleased  me.  One  honest  journalist  avows  that  it  could 
never  have  been  written  by  a  bachelor.  I  thank  him 
for  thinking  so  well  of  me,  and  heartily  wish  that  his 
thought  were  as  true  as  it  is  kind. 

Yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  bachelors  are  the  only 
safe  and  secure  observers  of  all  the  phases  of  married 
life.  The  rest  of  the  world  have  their  hobbies,  and  by 
law,  as  well  as  by  immemorial  custom,  are  reckoned 
unfair  witnesses  in  everything  relating  to  their  matri 
monial  affairs. 

• 

Perhaps  I  ought  however  to  make  an  exception  in 
favor  of  spinsters,  who,  like  us,  are  independent  spec 
tators,  and  possess  just  that  kind  of  indifference  to 
the  marital  state  which  makes  them  intrepid  in  their 
observations,  and  very  desirable  for  —  authorities. 

As  for  the  style  of  the  book,  I  have  nothing  to  say  for 
it,  except  to  refer  to  my  title.  These  are  not  sermons, 
nor  .essays,  nor  criticisms  ;  —  they  are  only  Reveries. 
And  if  the  reader  should  stumble  upon  occasional  mag 
niloquence,  or  be  worried  with  a  little  too  much  of  sen 
timent,  pray  let  him  remember  —  that  I  am  dreaming. 

But  while  I  say  this  in  the  hope  of  nicking  off  the 
wiry  edge  of  my  reader's  judgment,  I  shall  yet  stand  up 


ORIGINAL   PREFACE.  ix 

boldly  for  the  general  tone  and  character  of  the  book. 
If  there  is  bad  feeling  in  it,  or  insincerity,  or  shallow 
sentiment,  or  any  foolish  depth  of  affection  betrayed, — 
I  am  responsible  ;  and  the  critics  may  expose  it  to  their 
heart's  content 

I  have  moreover  a  kindly  feeling  for  these  Reveries 
from  their  very  private  character  ;  they  consist  mainly 
of  just  such  whimseys,  and  reflections,  as  a  great  many 
brother  bachelors  are  apt  to  indulge  in,  b'ut  which  they 
are  too  cautious,  or  too  prudent,  to  lay  before  the  world. 
As  I  have  in  this  matter  shown  a  frankness  and  naivetd 
which  are  unusual,  I  shall  ask  a  corresponding  frank 
ness  in  my  reader  ;  and  I  can  assure  him  safely  that  this 
is  eminently  one  of  those  books  which  were  "  never  in 
tended  for  publication." 

In  the  hope  that  this  plain  avowal  may  quicken  the 
reader's  charity,  and  screen  me  from  cruel  judgment, 
I  remain,  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

IK  MARVEL. 

NEW  YORK,  Nov.,  1850. 


SECOND   PREFACE. 


MY  publisher  has  written  me  that  the  old  type  of 
this  book  of  the  Reveries  are  so  far  worn  and 
battered,  that  they  will  bear  no  further  usage  ;  and,  in 
view  of  a  new  edition,  he  asks  for  such  revision  of  the 
text  as  I  may  deem  judicious,  and  for  a  few  lines  in  way 
of  preface. 

I  began  the  revision.  I  scored  out  word  after  word  ; 
presently  I  came  to  the  scoring  out  of  paragraphs  ;  and 
before  I  had  done,  I  was  making  my  scores  by  the  page. 

It  would  never  do.  It  might  be  the  better,  but  it 
would  not  be  the  same.  I  cannot  lop  away  those  twelve 
swift,  changeful  years  that  are  gone. 

Middle  age  does  not  look  on  life  like  youth  ;  we  can 
not  make  it.  And  why  mix  the  years  and  the  thoughts  ? 
Let  the  young  carry  their  own  burdens,  and  banner; 
and  we  —  ours. 


SECOND  PREFACE.  xi 

I  have  determined  not  to  touch-  the  book.  A  race 
has  grown  up  which  may  welcome  its  youngness,  and 
find  a  spirit  or  a  sentiment  in  it  that  cleaves  to  them, 
and  cheers  them,  and  is  true.  I  hope  they  will. 

For  me  those  young  years  are  gone.  I  cannot  go 
back  to  that  tide.  I  hear  the  rush  of  it  in  quiet  hours, 
like  the  murmur  of  lost  music.  The  companions  who 
discussed  with  me  these  little  fantasies  as  they  came 
reeking  from  the  press,  —  and  suggested  how  I  might 
have  mended  matters  by  throwing  in  a  new  light  here, 
or  deepening  the  shadows  there,  —  are  no  longer  within 
ear-shot.  If  living,  they  are  widely  scattered  ;  —  heads 
of  young  families,  maybe,  who  will  bring  now  to  the 
re-reading  of  passages  they  thought  too  sombre,  the 
light  of  such  bitter  experience  as,  ten  years  since, 
neither  they  nor  I  had  fathomed.  Others  are  dapper, 
elderly  bachelors,  —  coquetting  with  the  world  in  the 
world's  great  cities,  — brisk  in  their  step,  — coaxing  all 
the  features  of  youth  to  stay  by  them,  —  brushing  their 
hair  with  needless  and  nervous  frequency  over  the 
growing  spot  of  baldness,  —  perversely  reckoning  them 
selves  still  proper  mates  for  girlhood,  —  dreaming  yet 
(as  we  once  dreamed  together)  of  an  Elysium  in  store, 
and  of  a  fairy  future,  where  only  roses  shall  bloom. 

The  houses  where  I  was   accustomed  to  linger  show 


xii  SECOND  PREFACE. 

other  faces  at  the  windows,  —  bright  and  cheery  faces, 
it  is  true,  —  but  they  are  looking  over  at  a  young  fellow 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  way. 

The  children  who  sat  for  my  pictures  are  grown  ;  the 
boys  that  I  watched  at  their  game  of  taw,  and  who 
clapped  their  hands  gleefully  at  a  good  shot,  are  but 
toned  into  natty  blue  frocks,  and  wear  little  lace-bor 
dered  bands  upon  their  shoulders  ;  and  over  and  over, 
as  I  read  my  morning  paper,  I  am  brought  to  a  sudden 
pause,  and  a  strange  electric  current  thrills  me,  as  I 
come  upon  their  boy-names  printed  in  the  dead-roll  of 
the  war. 

The  girls  who  wore  the  charming  white  pinafores,  and 
a  wild  tangle  of  flaxen  curls,  have  now  netted  up  all 
those  clustering  tresses  into  a  stately  Pompadour  head 
dress  ;  and  they  rustle  past  me  in  silks,  and  do  not 
know  me. 

The  elderly  friends  who  cheered  me  with  kindly  ex 
pressions  of  look  and  tongue  —  I  am  compelled  to  say 
—  now  trip  in  their  speech  ;  and  I  observe  a  little  mo 
rocco  case  at  their  elbows  —  for  eye-glasses. 

And  as  they  put  them  on,  to  read  what  I  may  be  say 
ing  now,  let  them  keep  their  old  charity,  ana  think  as 
well  of  me  as  they  can. 

EDGEIVOOD,  1863. 


A    NEW  PREFACE. 


IN  the  year  1863  —  more  than  ten  years  after  the  first 
printing  of  the  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR — I  wrote 
a  new  Preface  for  a  new  edition,  thinking  that  I  was  then 
parting  company  with  this  little  book  forever. 

Yet  now  —  twenty  years  later  —  more  than  thirty  since 
this  waif  of  younger  years  was  first  launched  on  the  tide 
of  public  favor,  I  am  called  again  to  face  the  youngness 
of  it  —  to  measure  its  short-comings  —  to  be  critical  over 
its  affluent  diction,  and  yet  —  to  launch  it  once  again 
upon  a  new  cruise  amongst  the  abounding  book-craft  of 
later  and  shapelier  make. 

I  would  not  have  the  courage  to  do  this,  were  I  not 
assured  by  the  publisher  that  its  homely  old-style  qual 
ities  are  still  welcome  to  very  many  young  people  ;  and 
its  short-comings  disturb  me  all  the  more  when  I  am  told 


xiv  A  NEW  PREFACE. 

—  as  the  publishers'  accounts  do  tell  me  —  that  many 
hundreds  of  new  buyers  every  year  do  still  find  some 
what  in  its  fervent  rhetoric  to  warm  their  girlish  or  boy 
ish  hearts. 

I  am  grateful  for  this  ;  and  yet  I  think  I  have  grown 
too  old  to  understand  it  fully. 

It  is  quite  certain  that  at  the  first  issue  of  this  book,  I 
had  no  belief  and  no  warrant  that  it  would  maintain  so 
strong  and  so  long  a  hold  upon  the  public  attention.  Its 
publication,  indeed,  was  almost  an  accident ;  and  per 
haps  the  Preface  I  write  to-day  will  be  most  pardonable 
and  most  agreeable  to  my  readers  if  it  take  the  shape  of 
a  history  of  the  first  writing  of  these  REVERIES,  and  of  a 
garrulous  old  man's  tale  of  the  way  in  which  they  first 
came  to  be  printed. 

At  the  opening  of  the  year  1850,  I  began,  in  New 
York,  the  publication  of  a  little  weekly  paper  or  pam 
phlet — in  very  elegant  shape  as  regarded  typography  — 
called  The  Lorgnette  j  or,  Studies  of  the  Town,  in  which 
there  was  some  satire  and  a  good  deal  of  what  I  counted 
honest  preachment  against  the  follies  of  the  day.  These 
papers  were  afterward  gathered  into  book-shape,  mak 
ing  two  dainty  volumes,  which  are  still  occasionally  to 
be  met  with  in  old  book-shops.  The  pamphlets  were 
published  anonymously,  and  were  sold  with  the  imprint 


A  NEW  PREFACE.  xv 

of  HENRY  KERNOT  (he  being  a  small  bookseller  up 
Broadway,  at  the  centre  of  what  was  then  the  fashion 
able  shopping  region),  and  the  secret  of  authorship  was 
very  carefully  guarded. 

Perhaps  for  this  reason — perhaps  for  the  satiric  tone 
which  belonged  to  them  —  the  papers  had  a  certain  suc 
cess,  and  were  subject  of  much  comment.  Even  Mr. 
Kernot  himself  was  not  cognizant  of  their  true  author 
ship  ;  and  knew  little  save  that  the  big  bundle  of  yellow- 
covered  pamphlets  was  delivered  in  a  mysterious  way 
upon  his  counter  every  Thursday  morning.  Indeed  I  am 
disposed  to  believe  that  Mr.  Kernot's  important  air,  and 
affable  smiles,  and  tightly  closed  lips,  fed  the  mystifica 
tion  not  a  little.  The  good  man  even  volunteered  the 
keeping  of  a  weekly  diary,  in  which  he  entered  the 
opinions,  fro  and  con,  of  his  fashionable  clients  —  a 
very  full  diary  and  humorsome  (Mr.  Kernot  not  lacking 
in  that  quality)  ;  and  this  budget,  —  which  always  found 
its  way  to  me  through  the  mediation  of  one  or  two 
friends  who  were  alone  in  the  secret  —  is  still  in  one 
of  my  pigeon-holes,  scored  with  underlinings,  and 
radiant  with  notable  New  York  names  of  thirty  years 
since. 

By  the  time,  however,  the  Lorgnette  had  reached 
its  twelfth  number  (there  were  twenty-four  in  all)  sus- 


xvi  A  NEW  PREFACE. 

picion  of  authorship  —  which  had  drifted  about  amongst 
some  dozen  or  more  of  well  or  ill-known  names  —  began 
to  settle  upon  my  own  with  an  ugly  pertinacity. 

To  divert  this  growing  suspicion,  and  to  guard  more 
effectually  a  secret  which  had  been  so  well  kept,  and 
which  had  been  full  of  its  pleasant  entertainments,  I 
bethought  me  of  publishing  somewhat  under  my  own 
name,  of  an  entirely  different  quality  and  tone.  A  sin 
gle  paper  of  such  sort  (the  First  REVERIE  of  the  present 
volume)  I  had  published  the  year  previous  in  the  South 
ern  Literary  Messenger  —  a  journal  of  comparatively 
small  circulation  —  printed  at  Richmond,  Va.,  by  my 
friend  Mr.  Jno.  R.  Thompson. 

This  paper  had  been  —  Mr.  Thompson  informed  me  — * 
received  with  much  approval ;  and  indeed  it  had  come 
at  about  this  time  to  the  honor  of  a  private  printing,  in 
elegant  quarto  form,  and  an  edition  of  twelve  copies,  by 
a  curious  bibliophile  and  (I  trust)  worthy  gentleman, 
then  living  at  Savannah,  Ga. 

Application  had  also  been  made  to  me  by  Mr.  Henry 
J.  Raymond  —  at  that  time  casting  about  for  material  to 
make  up  the  early  numbers  of  Harper's  New  Monthly 
Magazine,  then  near  its  beginning  —  for  permission  to 
reprint  the  First  REVERIE.  This  permission  was  freely 
granted ;  and  the  paper  thus  had  the  honor  of  appear- 


A  NEW  PREFACE.  xvii 

ing  in  the  first  volume  ever  issued  of  Harper's  Maga 
zine. 

Its  style  and  strain  being  wholly  unlike  that  of  the 
Lorgnette,  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  politic 
thing,  and  further  my  purpose  of  mystifying  the  literary 
quidnuncs,  to  add  more  papers  in  a  kindred  vein,  and 
publish  all  together  as  an  independent  volume. 

I  wrote,  therefore,  the  two  succeeding  chapters,  and 
submitted  them,  with  the  one  previously  printed,  to  Mr. 
Fields  (then  of  the  house  of  Ticknor  &  Fields),  who  de 
clined  their  publication. 

I  had  made  this  proposal  to  a  Boston  house,  because 
my  well-known  and  most  friendly  relations  with  Mr. 
Charles  Scribner,  and  his  half- understood  privity  to  the 
origin  of  the  Lorgnette  papers,  would  (in  the  event  of 
my  publishing  the  new  book  with  him)  go  to  fasten  the 
suspected  authorship  more  strongly  upon  me. 

But  —  as  I  said  —  Mr.  Fields  declined  the  new  ven 
ture  ;  though,  some  years  after,  flattering  me  with  the 
admission  that  he  more  than  half  regretted  his  decision 
in  the  case.  The  decision,  however,  did  not  at  all  dis 
turb  my  pleasant  relations  —  then,  and  always  after  — 
with  the  author-publisher.  Indeed,  I  am  glad  of  this 
opportunity  to  declare  my  high  appreciation  of  the  vir 
tues  which  belonged  to  him  as  publisher  and  editor  :  he 


xviii  A   NEW  PREFACE. 

was  honest ;  he  was  sympathetic ;  he  was  most  liberal. 
In  all  my  later  association  with  him,  during  his  editor 
ship  of  the  Atlantic,  I  found  his  advices  judicious  and 
pertinent ;  and  his  little  notelets  —  of  which  I  have  a 
great  bundle  —  are  full  of  those  bits  of  cheery  encourage 
ment —  of  piquant  praise  of  what  he  counted  good  —  of 
adroit  suggestions  of  what  might  work  betterment,  which 
made  them,  as  it  seems  to  me,  model  letters  for  a  pub 
lisher  who  wishes  to  bring  an  author  to  his  best  en 
deavor. 

He  flattered,  to  be  sure ;  but  his  was  a  headlong, 
hearty  flattery,  full  of  an  unction  that  deceived  no  man 
of  sense,  yet  encouraged  and  cheered  everybody  on 
whom  the  unction  fell.  Then,  as  I  said,  he  had  abun 
dant  sympathy  with  an  author's  work  ;  —  not  a  bump 
tious,  outside  calculation  of  its  bearings  —  but  a  delicate 
fathoming  of  your  own  intentions  and  expectancies  that 
was  very  helpful  and  stimulative.  Whether  he  criticised, 
or  praised,  or  made  suggestions,  he  had  the  charming 
art  of  making  one  believe  thoroughly  in  his  friendliness. 

For  these  things  I -should  have  always  welcomed,  and 
did  always  welcome  his  crisp,  pointed,  marrowy  little 
letters,  even  if  they  had  not  brought  —  as  they  so  often 
did  bring  —  a  most  agreeable  and  prompt  tidbit  in  form 
of  a  bank  cheque. 


A   NEW  PREFACE.  xix 

But  I  return  to  my  budget  about  the  REVERIES. 
Failing  of  an  outside  publisher,  the  little  book  was 
speedily  put  through  the  press  by  Mr.  Scribner  — 
though  with  only  moderate  hopes,  on  his  part,  of  its 
success. 

It  was,  however,  in  a  vein  that  struck  people  as  being 
somewhat  new ;  it  made  easy  reading  for  young  folks ; 
it  laid  strong  hold  upon  those  of  romantic  appetites  ; 
and  reached,  within  a  very  few  months,  a  sale  which 
surprised  the  publisher  as  much  as  it  surprised  the 
author. 

And  the  surprise  continues.  It  seems  to  me  that  I 
have  written  very  much  better  books,  every  way,  since 
that  time  ;  but  the  world  of  book-buyers  will  not  agree 
with  me  —  but  goes  on  insisting  upon  the  larger  interest 
and  values  attaching  to  these  young  "  REVERIES  OF 
A  BACHELOR." 

Well,  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  my  good  friends  :  but 
when  my  publisher  sends  me  the  old  sheets  for  revision, 
I  am  in  the  same  quandary  which  beset  me  twenty  years 
ago.  I  may  make,  and  have  made,  a  few  verbal  emen 
dations  —  a  little  coy  toning  down  of  over-exuberance ; 
and  I  have  put  here  and  there  a  short  patch  of  homely 
words  into  the  place  of  some  garish  bit  of  color :  yet 
when  I  come  to  deal  with  the  sentiment  of  the  book, 


xx  A   NEW  PREFACE. 

and  to  question  its  good  balance,  or  lack  of  balance, 
I  am  even  farther  removed  from  the  capacity  for  sound 
and  fair  judgment  than  twenty  years  ago.  More  than 
then  —  and  by  great  odds,  more  —  the  book  wears  for 
me  the  illusions  and  the  fleeting  prismatic  hues  which 
bubbles  always  wear,  and  which  youth  is  always  used 
to  blow,  and  to  follow  with  eager  eye,  till  the  irides 
cence  be  gone,  and  the  bubbles  too  ! 

They  do  say  that  as  age  draws  on,  and  the  days  come 
nigh  "  when  the  grasshopper  is  a  burden,"  that  the  illu 
sions  of  youth  come  back  again  with  something  of  their 
old  unreal  charm  and  glory  ;  and  that  even  boyish  sen 
timent  may  again  take  root  and  grow  in  brains  that  are 
mellowed  with  over-ripeness. 

Maybe  :  Yet,  though  I  recognize  no  rampant  re- 
growth  of  youthful  sentiment,  I  think  that  I  do  take 
note  of  a  kindlier  tolerance  stealing  over  me  for  these 
fantastic  children  of  my  brain,  than  was  entertained  in 
the  days  when  vitality  was  stronger  and  manhood  more 
assured  of  its  headway  against  Time. 

I  am  not  certain  that  I  would  blot  out  from  staid 
people's  knowledge  what  they  may  count  the  idle 
vagaries  and  wanton  word-leaps  and  the  over-tender 
ness  of  this  book,  —  even  though  I  could. 

Whatever  the  astute  critics  may  think,  I  do  not  and 


A  NEW  PREFACE.  xxi 

will  not  believer  that  the  boisterous  and  scathing  and 
rollicking  humor  of  our  time  has  blown  all  of  pathos  and 
all  of  the  more  delicate  human  sympathies  into  limbo. 

Surely  —  surely  there  are  loves  and  sorrows  in  life, 
which  will  not  be  exorcised  with  a  laugh  —  howsoever 
gamesome  or  sparkling.  And  that  these  loves  and  sor 
rows  may  be  wrought  into  language  which  will  keep 
them  healthily  alive  in  letters  —  how  many  witnessing 
monuments  there  be,  amongst  the  books  that  all  men 
cherish ! 

But  I  did  not  mean  to  be  led  into  any  defence  of  these 
youthful  whimseys,  or  into  any  apology  for  them  :  it 
were  too  late  now.  Indeed,  if  this  little  craft  of  a  book 
were  wholly  unseaworthy,  it  would  —  seems  to  me  — 
have  sunk  out  of  sight  long  ago ;  my  own  expectation 
was  that  this  would  be  its  fate. 

As  it  is  —  I  put  its  decks  and  spars  in  trim  once  more 
—  a  toy-boat,  you  may  call  it,  if  you  like  —  and  launch 
it  once  again,  and  for  the  last  time  now  —  waving  an 
adieu  to  it  —  hoping  it  may  drift  into  seas  where  it  has 
never  found  passage  before,  and  get  good  Christian 
holding  when  it  comes  to  harbor,  and  good  favoring 

breezes  wherever  it  may  float. 

D.  G.  M. 

EDGEWOOD,   Aug.,  1883. 


CONTENTS. 


FIRST  REVERIE. 

PAGE 

OVER  A  WOOD-FIRE, -3 

I.  SMOKE  —  SIGNIFYING  DOUBT,   ....  7 

II.  BLAZE  —  SIGNIFYING  CHEER,       .        .        .        .  17 
III.  ASHES  —  SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION,  ...  24 

SECOND  REVERIE. 

BY  A  CITY  GRATE, 4* 

I.  SEA-COAL,        .                49 

II.  ANTHRACITE,       .......  68 

THIRD  REVERIE. 

OVER  HIS  CIGAR, 87 

I.  LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL, 91 

II.  LIGHTED  WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER,  .        .        .  105 

III.  LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH, 120 


xxiv  CONTENTS. 

FOURTH  REVERIE. 

PAGE 

MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING 137 

I.  MORNING  —  WHICH  is  THE  PAST,        .        .        .  145 

SCHOOL-DAYS, 155 

THE  SEA, 166 

THE  FATHERLAND, 174 

A  ROMAN  GIRL, 184 

THE  APENNINES, 194 

ENRICA, 202 

II.  NOON  —  WHICH  is  THE  PRESENT.     .         .        .211 
EARLY  FRIENDS,        ......  214 

SCHOOL  REVISITED, 222 

COLLEGE,  .......  227 

THE  PACKET  OF  BELLA,         ....       234 

III.  EVENING  —  WHICH  is  THE  FUTURE,     .         .        .  244 
CARRY,  ........       248 

THE  LETTER, 257 

NEW  TRAVEL, 263 

HOME 276 


FIRST  REVERIE. 

SMOKE,  FLAME,  AND  ASHES. 


OVER  A    WOOD-FIRE. 


I  HAVE  got  a  quiet  farm-house  in  the  country,  a 
very  humble  place  to  be  sure,  tenanted  by  a 
worthy  enough  man,  of  the  old  New-England  stamp, 
where  I  sometimes  go  for  a  day  or  two  in  the  winter, 
to  look  over  the  farm  accounts,  and  to  see  how  the 
stock  is  thriving  on  the  winter's  keep. 

One  side  the  door,  as  you  enter  from  the  porch, 
is  a  little  parlor,  scarce  twelve  feet  by  ten,  with  a 
cosy-looking  fireplace,  a  heavy  oak  floor,  a  couple  of 
arm-chairs,  and  a  brown  table  with  carved  lions'  feet. 
Out  of  this  room  opens  a  little  cabinet,  only  big 
enough  for  a  broad  bachelor  bedstead,  where  I  slee/p 
upon  feathers,  and  wake  in  the  morning  with  my 
eye  upon  a  saucy  colored  lithographic  print  of  some 
fancy  "Bessie." 

It  happens  to  be  the  only  house  in  the  world  of 


4  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

which  I  am  bona-fide  owner  ;  and  I  take  a  vast  deal 
of  comfort  in  treating  it  just  as  I  choose.  I  manage 
to  break  some  article  of  furniture,  almost  every  time 
I  pay  it  a  visit ;  and  if  I  cannot  open  the  window 
readily  of  a  morning,  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  I  knock 
out  a  pane  or  two  of  glass  with  my  boot.  I  lean 
against  the  walls  in  a  very  old  arm-chair  there  is  on 
the  premises,  and  scarce  ever  fail  to  worry  such  a 
hole  in  the  plastering  as  would  set  me  down  for  a 
round  charge  for  damages  in  town,  or  make  a  prim 
housewife  fret  herself  into  a  raging  fever.  I  laugh 
out  loud  with  myself,  in  my  big  arm-chair,  when  I 
think  that  I  am  neither  afraid  of  one  nor  the  other. 

As  for  the  fire,  I  keep  the  little  hearth  so  hot  as 
to  warm  half  the  cellar  below,  and  the  whole  space 
between  the  jambs  roars  for  hours  together  with 
white  flame.  To  be  sure,  the  windows  are  not  very 
tight,  between  broken  panes  and  bad  joints,  so  that 
the  fire,  large  as  it  may  be,  is  by  no  means  an  ex 
travagant  comfort. 

As  night  approaches,  I  have  a  huge  pile  of  oak 
and  hickory  placed  beside  the  hearth  ;  I  put  out  the 
tallow  candle  on  the  mantel,  (using  the  family 
snuffers,  with  one  leg  broken,)  then,  drawing  my 
chair  directly  in  front  of  the"  blazing  wood,  and  set 
ting  one  foot  on  each  of  the  old  iron  fire-dogs,  (until 
they  grow  too  warm,)  I  dispose  myself  for  an  even- 


OVER  A    WOOD-FIRE.  $ 

ing  of  such  sober  and  thoughtful  quietude,  as  I  "be 
lieve,  on  my  soul,  that  very  few  of  nay  fellow-men 
have  the  good  fortune  to  enjoy. 

My  tenant,  meantime,  in  the  other  room,  I  can 
hear  now  and  then,  —  though  there  is  a  thick  stone 
chimney  and  broad  entry  between,  —  multiplying 
contrivances  with  his  wife  to  put  two  babies  to  sleep. 
This  occupies  them,  I  should  say,  usually  an  hour  ; 
though  my  only  measure  of  time  (for  I  never  carry  a 
watch  into  the  country)  is  the  blaze  of  my  fire.  By 
ten,  or  thereabouts,  my  stock  of  wood  is  nearly  ex 
hausted  ;  I  pile  upon  the  hot  coals  what  remains, 
and  sit  watching  how  it  kindles,  and  blazes,  and 
goes  out,  —  even  like  our  joys !  —  and  then  slip  by 
the  light  of  the  embers  into  my  bed,  where  I  luxu 
riate  in  such  sound  and  healthful  slumber  as  only 
such  rattling  window-frames,  and  country  air,  can 
supply. 

But  to  return.  The  other  evening,  —  it  happened 
to  be  on  my  last  visit  to  my  farm-house,  —  when 
I  had  exhausted  all  the  ordinary  rural  topics  of 
thought,  had  formed  all  sorts  of  conjectures  as  to 
the  income  of  the  year  ;  had  planned  a  new  wall 
around  one  lot,  and  the  clearing  up  of  another,  now 
covered  with  patriarchal  wood  ;  and  wondered  if  the 
little  rickety  house  would  not  be  after  all  a  snug 
enough  box  to  live  and  to  die  in,  —  I  fell  on  a  sud- 


6  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

den  into  such  an  unprecedented  line  of  thought, 
which  took  such  deep  hold  of  my  sympathies  — 
sometimes  even  starting  tears  —  that  I  determined, 
the  next  day,  to  set  as  much  of  it  as  I  could  recall, 
on  paper. 

Something  —  it  may  have  been  the  home-looking 
Haze,  (I  am  a  bachelor  of — say  six  and  twenty,)  or 
possibly  a  plaintive  cry  of  the  baby  in  my  tenant's 
room  —  had  suggested  to  me  the  thought  of  —  Mar 
riage. 

I  piled  upon  the  heated  fire-dogs  the  last  armful 
of  my  wood  ;  and  now,  said  I,  bracing  myself  cour 
ageously  between  the  arms  of  my  chair,  I'll  not 
flinch;  I'll  pursue  the  thought  wherever  it  leads, 

though  it  lead  me  to  the  d ,  (I  am  apt  to  be 

hasty,)  —  at  least,  continued  I,  softening,  until  my 
fire  is  out. 

The  wood  was  green,  and  at  first  showed  no  dis 
position  to  blaze.  It  smoked  furiously.  Smoke, 
thought  I,  always  goes  before  Blaze ;  and  so  does 
doubt  go  before  decision :  and  my  Keverie,  from 
that  very  starting  point,  slipped  into  this  shape  •  — 


Smoke  —  Signifying  Doubt. 

A  WIPE  ?  —  thought  I ;  —  yes,  a  wife  ! 
And  why? 

And  pray,  my  dear  sir,  why  not  —  why  ?  Why 
not  doubt ;  why  not  hesitate  ;  why  not  tremble  ? 

Does  a  man  buy  a  ticket  in  a  lottery  —  a  poor 
man,  whose  whole  earnings  go  in  to  secure  the 
ticket  —  without  trembling,  hesitating,  and  doubt 
ing? 

Can  a  man  stake  his  bachelor  respectability,  his 
independence  and  comfort,  upon  the  die  of  absorb 
ing,  unchanging,  relentless  marriage,  without  trem 
bling  at  the  venture  ? 

Shall  a  man  who  has  been  free  to  chase  his  fancies 
over  the  wide  world,  without  let  or  hindrance, 
shut  himself  up  to  marriage-ship,  within  four 


8  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

walls  called  Home,  that  are  to  claim  him,  his  time, 
his  trouble,  and  his  thought,  thenceforward  forever- 
more,  without  doubts  thick,  and  thick-coming  as 
Smoke  ? 

Shall  he  who  has  been  hitherto  a  mere  observer 
of  other  men's  cares  and  business,  —  moving  off 
where  they  made  him  sick  of  heart,  approaching 
whenever  and  wherever  they  made  him  gleeful,  — 
shall  he  now  undertake  administration  of  just  .such 
cares  and  business,  without  qualms  ?  Shall  he, 
whose  whole  life  has  been  but  a  nimble  succession 
of  escapes  from  trifling  difficulties,  now  broach  with 
out  doubtings  —  that  Matrimony,  where  if  difficulty 
beset  him,  there  is  no  escape  ?  Shall  this  brain  of 
mine,  careless-working,  never  tired  with  idleness, 
feeding  on  long  vagaries  and  high  gigantic  castles, 
dreaming  out  beatitudes  hour  by  hour,  —  turn  itself 
at  length  to  such  dull  task-work,  as  thinking  out  a 
livelihood  for  wife  and  children  ? 

Where  thenceforward  will  be  those  sunny  dreams 
in  which  I  have  warmed  my  fancies  and  my  heart, 
and  lighted  my  eye  with  crystal  ?  This  very  mar 
riage,  which  a  brilliant  working  imagination  has  in 
vested  time  and  again  with  brightness  and  delight, 
can  serve  no  longer  as  a  mine  for  teeming  fancy : 
all,  alas  !  will  be  gone  —  reduced  to  the  dull  stand 
ard  of  the  actual.  No  more  room  for  intrepid 


SMOKE— SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  5 

forays  of  imagination  —  no  more  gorgeous  realm- 
making  —  all  will  be  over ! 

Why  not,  I  thought,  go  on  dreaming? 

Can  any  wife  be  prettier  than  an  after-dinner  fan 
cy,  idle  and  yet  vivid,  can  paint  for  you  ?  Can  any 
children  make  less  noise  than  the  little,  rosy-cheeked 
ones,  who  have  no  existence  except  in  the  omnium 
gatherum  of  your  own  brain  ?  Can  any  housewife 
be  more  unexceptionable  than  she  who  goes  sweep 
ing  daintily  the  cobwebs  that  gather  in  your  dreams  ? 
Can  any  domestic  larder  be  better  stocked  than  the 
private  larder  of  your  head  dozing  on  a  cushioned 
chair-back  at  Delmonico's  ?  Can  any  family  purse 
be  better  filled  than  the  exceeding  plump  one  you 
dream  of,  after  reading  such  pleasant  books  as 
Miinchhausen,  or  Typee  ? 

But  if,  after  all,  it  must  be,  —  duty,  or  what-not, 
making  provocation,  —  what  then  ?  And  I  clapped 
my  feet  hard  against  the  fire-dogs,  and  leaned  back, 
and  turned  my  face  to  the  ceiling,  as  much  as  to  say, 
—  And  where  on  earth,  then,  shall  a  poor  devil  look 
for  a  wife  ? 

Somebody  says,  —  Lyttleton  or  Shaftesbtiry  I 
think,  —  that  "  marriages  would  be  happier  if  they 
were  all  arranged  by  the  Lord  Chancellor."  Unfor 
tunately,  we  have  no  Lord  Chancellor  to  make  this 
commutation  of  our  misery. 


io  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Shall  a  man  then  scour  the  country  on  a  mule's 
back,  like  Honest  Gil  Bias  of  Santillane  ;  or  shall  he 
make  application  to  some  such  intervening  provi 
dence  as  Madame  St.  Marc,  who,  as  I  see  by  the 
Presse,  manages  these  matters  to  one's  hand  for 
some  five  per  cent,  on  the  fortunes  of  the  parties  ? 

I  have  trouted,  when  the  brook  was  so  low,  and 
the  sky  so  hot,  that  I  might  as  well  have  thrown  my 
fly  upon  the  turnpike  ;  and  I  have  hunted  hare  at 
noon,  and  woodcock  in  snow-time,  never  despairing, 
scarce  doubting  ;  but  for  a  poor  hunter  of  his  kind, 
without  traps  or  snares,  or  any  aid  of  police  or  con 
stabulary,  to  traverse  the  world,  where  are  swarm 
ing,  on  a  moderate  computation,  some  three  hun 
dred  and  odd  millions  of  unmarried  women,  for  a 
single  capture  —  irremediable,  unchangeable  —  and 
yet  a  capture  which,  by  strange  metonymy  not  laid 
down  in  the  books,  is  very  apt  to  turn  captor  into 
captive,  and  make  game  of  hunter,  —  all  this,  surely, 
surely  may  make  a  man  shrug  with  doubt  I 

Then,  again,  —  there  are  the  plaguey  wife's  rela 
tions.  Who  knows  how  many  third,  fourth,  or  fifth 
cousins  will  appear  at  careless  complimentary  inter 
vals,  long  after  you  had  settled  into  the  placid  belief 
that  all  congratulatory  visits  were  at  an  end  ?  How 
many  twisted-headed  brothers  will  be  putting  in 
their  advice,  as  a  friend  to  Peggy  ? 


SMOKE— SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  11 

How  many  maiden  aunts  will  come  to  spend  a 
month  or  two  with  their  "dear  Peggy,"  and  want  to 
know  every  tea-time  "  if  she  is  n't  a  dear  love  of  a 
wife?"  Then,  dear  father-in-law  will  beg  (taking 
dear  Peggy's  hand  in  his)  to  give  a  little  wholesome 
counsel ;  and  will  be  very  sure  to  advise  just  the  con 
trary  of  what  you  had  determined  to  undertake. 
And  dear  mamma-in-law  must  set  her  nose  into  Peg 
gy's  cupboard,  and  insist  upon  having  the  key  to 
your  own  private  locker  in  the  wainscot. 

Then,  perhaps,  there  is  a  little  bevy  of  dirty-nosed 
nephews  who  come  to  spend  the  holidays,  and  eat 
up  your  East  India  sweetmeats ;  and  who  are  for 
ever  tramping  over  your  head,  or  raising  the  old 
Harry  below,  while  you  are  busy  with  your  clients. 
Last,  and  worst,  is  some  fidgety  old  uncle,  forever 
too  cold  or  too  hot,  who  vexes  you  with  his  patron 
izing  airs,  and  impudently  kisses  his  little  Peggy  ! 

That  could  be  borne,  however  ;  for  perhaps 

he  has  promised  his  fortune  to  Peggy.  Peggy,  then, 
will  be  rich :  (and  the  thought  made  me  rub  my 
shins,  which  were  now  getting  comfortably  warm 
upon  the  fire-dogs.)  Then,  she  will  be  forever  talk 
ing  of  her  fortune  ;  and  pleasantly  reminding  you, 
on  occasion  of  a  favorite  purchase, — how  lucky  that 
she  had  the  means  ;  and  dropping  hints  about  econ« 
omy  ;  and  buying  very  extravagant  Paisleys. 


12  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

She  will  annoy  you  by  looking  over  the  stock-list 
at  breakfast-time  ;  and  mention  quite  carelessly  to 
your  clients  that  she  is  interested  in  such  or  such 
a  speculation. 

She  will  be  provokingly  silent  when  you  hint  to  a 
tradesman  that  you  have  not  the  money  by  you  for 
his  small  bill ;  in  short,  she  will  tear  the  life  out  of 
you,  making  you  pay  in  righteous  retribution  of 
annoyance,  grief,  vexation,  shame,  and  sickness  of 
heai't,  for  the  superlative  folly  of  "  marrying  rich." 

But  if  not  rich,  then  poor.  Bah !  the  thought 

made  me  stir  the  coals  ;  but  there  was  still  no  blaze. 
The  paltry  earnings  you  are  able  to  wring  out  of 
clients  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  will  now  be  all  our 
income  ;  you  will  be  pestered  for  pin-money,  and 
pestered  with  your  poor  wife's  relations.  Ten  to 
one,  she  will  stickle  about  taste,  —  "  Sir  Yisto's,"  — 
and  want  to  make  this  so  pretty,  and  that  so  charm 
ing,  if  she  only  had  the  means  ;  and  is  sure  Paul  (a 
kiss)  can't  deny  his  little  Peggy  such  a  trifling  sum, 
and  all  for  the  common  benefit. 

Then  she,  for  one,  means  that  her  children  shan't 
go  a-begging  for  clothes,  —  and  another  pull  at  the 
purse.  Trust  a  poor  mother  to  dress  her  children 
in  finery ! 

Perhaps  she  is  ugly ;  not  noticeable  at  first,  but 
growing  on  her,  and  (what  is  worse)  growing  faster 


SMOKE— SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  13 

on  you.  You  wonder  why  you  did  n't  see  that  vulgar 
nose  long  ago  ;  and  that  lip  —  it  is  very  strange,  you 
think,  that  yoii  ever  thought  it  pretty.  And  then,  to 
come  to  breakfast,  with  her  hair  looking  as  it  does, 
and  you  not  so  much  as  daring  to  say,  "Peggy,  do 
brush  your  hair!"  Her  foot  too — not  very  bad 
when  decently  chaussce  —  but  now  since  she's  mar 
ried  she  -does  wear  such  infernal  slippers  !  And  yet 
for  all  this,  to  be  prigging  up  for  an  hour  when  any 
of  my  old  chums  come  to  dine  with  me  ! 

"  Bless  your  kind  hearts,  my  dear  fellows,"  said  I, 
thrusting  the  tongs  into  the  coals,  and  speaking  out 
loud,  as  if  my  voice  could  reach  from  Virginia  to 
Paris  :  "  not  married  yet !  " 

Perhaps  Peggy  is  pretty  enough,  only  shrewish. 

No  matter  for  cold  coffee  ;  you  should  have 

been  up  before. 

What  sad,  thin,  poorly  cooked  chops,  to  eat  with 
your  rolls ! 

She  thinks  they  are  very  good,  and  wonders 

how  you  can  set  such  an  example  to  your  children. 

The  butter  is  nauseating. 

She  has  no  other,  and  hopes  you  '11  not  raise 

a  storm  about  butter  a  little  turned.  I  think  I  see 
myself,  ruminated  I,  sitting  meekly  at  table,  scarce 
daring  to  lift  up  my  eyes,  utterly  fagged  out  with 
some  quarrel  of  yesterday,  choking  down  detestably 


14  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

sour  muffins,  that  my  wife  thinks  are  "delicious," 
slipping  in  dried  mouthfuls  of  burnt  ham  off  the 
side  of  my  fork  tines,  slipping  off  my  chair  sideways 
at  the  end,  and  slipping  out,  with  my  hat  between 
my  knees,  to  business,  and  never  feeling  myself  a 
competent,  sound-minded  man,  till  the  oak  door  is 
between  me  and  Peggy. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  not  yet,"  said  I ;  and  in  so  earnest 

a  tone  that  my  dog  started  to  his  feet,  cocked  his 
eye  to  have  a  good  look  into  my  face,  met  my  smile 
of  triumph  with  an  amiable  wag  of  the  tail,  and 
curled  up  again  in  the  corner. 

Again,  Peggy  is  rich  enough,  well  enough,  mild 
enough,  only  she  does  n't  care  a  fig  for  you.  She 
has  married  you  because  father  or  grandfather 
thought  the  match  eligible,  and  because  she  did  n't 
wish  to  disoblige  them.  Besides,  she  did  n't  posi 
tively  hate  you,  and  thought  you  were  a  respectable 
enough  young  person  ;  she  has  told  you  so  repeat 
edly  at  dinner.  She  wonders  you  like  to  read  poe 
try;  she  wishes  you  would  buy  her  a  good  cook 
book,  and  insists  upon  your  making  your  will  at 
the  birth  of  the  first  baby. 

She  thinks  Captain  So-and-So  a  splendid-looking 
fellow,  and  wishes  you  would  trim  up  a  little,  were 
it  only  for  appearance'  sake. 

You  need  not  hurry  up  from  the  office  so  early  at 


SMOKE  — SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  15 

night :  she,  bless  her  clear  heart !  does  not  feel  lonely. 
You  read  to  her  a  love-tale :  she  interrupts  the  pa 
thetic  parts  with  directions  to  her  seamstress.  You 
read  of  marriages  :  she  sighs,  and  asks  if  Captain 
So-and-So  has  left  town  ?  She  hates  to  be  mewed 
up  in  a  cottage,  or  between  brick  walls  ;  she  does  so 
love  the  Springs  ! 

But,  again,  Peggy  loves  you  ;  at  least  she  swears 
it,  with  her  hand  on  the  "Sorrows  of  Werther." 
She  has  pin-money  which  she  spends  for  the  "Liter 
ary  World  "  and  the  "  Friends  in  Council."  She  is 
not  bad-looking,  save  a  bit  too  much  of  forehead  ; 
nor  is  she  sluttish,  unless  a  neglige  till  three  o'clock, 
and  an  ink-stain  on  the  forefinger  be  sluttish  ;  but 
then  she  is  such  a  sad  blue  ! 

You  never  fancied,  when  you  saw  her  buried  in  a 
three-volume  novel,  that  it  was  anything  more  than 
a  girlish  vagary ;  and  when  she  quoted  Latin,  you 
thought  innocently  that  she  had  a  capital  memory 
for  her  samplers. 

But  to  be  bored  eternally  about  divine  Dante  and 
funny  Goldoni,  is  too  bad.  Your  copy  of  Tasso,  a 
treasure  print  of  1680,  is  all  bethumbed  and  dogs- 
eared,  and  spotted  with  baby-gruel.  Even  your 
Seneca  —  an  Elzevir  —  is  all  sweaty  with  handling. 
She  adores  La  Fontaine,  reads  Balzac  with  a  kind  of 
artist-scowl,  and  will  not  let  Greek  alone. 


1 6  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

You  hint  at  broken  rest  and  an  aching  head  at 
breakfast,  and  she  will  fling  you  a  scrap  of  Anthol 
ogy,  in  lieu  of  the  camphor-bottle,  or  chant  the 
aia.i,  at'at,  of  tragic  chorus. 

The  nurse  is  getting  dinner;  you  are  hold 
ing  the  baby  ;  Peggy  is  reading  Bruyere. 

The  fire  smoked  thick  as  pitch,  and  puffed  out 
little  clouds  over  the  chimney-piece.  I  gave  the 
fore -stick  a  kick,  at  the  thought  of  Peggy,  baby, 
and  Bruyere. 

Suddenly  the  flame  flickered  bluely  athwart 

the  smoke,  caught  at  a  twig  below,  rolled  round  the 
mossy  oak  stick,  twined  among  the  crackling  tree- 
limbs,  mounted,  lit  up  the  whole  body  of  Smoke, 
and  blazed  out  cheerily  and  bright.  Doubt  vanished 
with  Smoke,  and  Hope  began  with  Flame. 


II. 

Blase  —  Signifying  Cheer. 

T  PUSHED  my  chair  back  ;  drew  up  another ; 
-"-  stretched  out  my  feet  cosily  upon  it,  rested  my 
elbows  on  the  chair-arms,  leaned  my  head  on  one 
hand,  and  looked  straight  into  the  leaping  and  dan 
cing  flame. 

Love  is  a  flame,  ruminated  I ;  and  (glancing 

round  the  room)  how  a  flame  brightens  up  a  man's 
habitation. 

"  Carlo,"  said  I,  calling  up  my  dog  into  the  light ; 
"  good  fellow,  Carlo  !  "  and  I  patted  him  kindly ;  and 
he  wagged  his  tail,  and  laid  his  nose  across  my  knee, 
and  looked  wistfully  up  in  my  face  ;  then  strode 
away,  turned  to  look  again,  and  lay  down  to  sleep. 

"  Pho,  the  brute ! "  said  I ;  "it  is  not  enough, 
after  all,  to  like  a  dog." 


1 8  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

If  now  in  that  chair  yonder,  not  the  one  your 

feet  lie  upon,  but  the  other,  beside  you,  —  closer  yet, 

—  were  seated  a  sweet-faced  girl,  with  a  pretty  little 
foot  lying  out  upon  the  hearth,  a  bit  of  lace  running 
round  the  swelling  throat,  the  hair  parted  to  a  charm 
over  a  forehead  fair  as  any  of  your  dreams,  —  and  if 
you  could  reach  an  arm  round  that  chair-back,  with 
out  fear  of  giving  offence,  and  suffer  your  fingers  to 
play  idly  with  those  curls  that  escape  down  the  neck, 

—  and  if  you  could  clasp  with  your  other  hand  those 
little,  white  taper  fingers  of  hers,  which  lie  so  tempt 
ingly  within  reach,  and  so,  talk  softly  and  low  in 
presence  of  the  Blaze,  while  the  hours  slip  without 
knowledge,  and  the  winter  winds  whistle  uncared  for, 

—  if,  in  short,  you  were  no  bachelor,  but  the  husband 
of  some  such  sweet  image,  (dream,  call  it  rather,) 
would  it  not  be  far  pleasanter  than  this  cold,  single, 
night- sit  ting,  counting    the   sticks,    reckoning    the 
length  of  the  Blaze,  and  the  height  of  the  falling 
snow? 

And  if,  some  or  all  of  those  wild  vagaries  that 
grow  on  your  fancy  at  such  an  hour,  you  could  whis 
per  into  listening  because  loving  ears,  —  ears  not 
tired  with  listening,  because  it  is  you  who  whisper, 

—  ears  ever  indulgent,  because  eager  to  praise,  —  and 
if  your  darkest  fancies  were  lit  up,  not  merely  with 
bright  wood-fire,  but  with  a  ringing  laugh  of  that 


BLAZE —SIGNIFYING    CHEER.  ig 

sweet  face  turned  up  in  fond  rebuke,  —  how  far  bet 
ter,  than  to  be  waxing  black  and  sour  over  pestilen 
tial  humors,  alone,  — your  very  dog  asleep  ? 

And  if,  when  a  glowing  thought  comes  into  yout 
brain,  quick  and  sudden,  you  could  tell  it  over  as  to 
a  second  self,  to  that  sweet  creature,  who  is  not  away 
because  she  loves  to  be  there  ;  and  if  you  could 
watch  the  thought  catching  that  girlish  mind,  illum 
ing  that  fair  brow,  sparkling  in  those  pleasantest  of 
eyes,  —  how  far  better  than  to  feel  it  slumbering,  and 
going  out,  heavy,  lifeless,  and  dead,  in  your  own 
selfish  fancy.  And  if  a  generous  emotion  steals  over 
you,  coming  you  know  not  whither,  would  there  not 
be  a  richer  charm  in  lavishing  it  in  caress,  or  endear 
ing  word,  upon  that  fondest  and  most  cherished  one, 
than  in  patting  your  glossy  coated  dog,  or  sinking 
lonely  to  smiling  slumbers  ? 

Would  not  benevolence  ripen  with  such  monitor 
to  task  it  ?  Would  not  selfishness  grow  faint  and 
dull,  leaning  ever  to  that  second  self,  which  is  the 
loved  one  ?  Would  not  guile  shiver,  and  grow 
weak,  before  that  girl-brow,  and  eye  of  innocence  ? 
Would  not  all  that  boyhood  prized  of  enthusiasm, 
and  quick  blood,  and  life,  renew  itself  in  such 
presence  ? 

The  fire  was  getting  hotter,  and  I  moved  into  the 
middle  of  the  room.  The  shadows  the  flames  made 

» 


20  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

were  playing  like  fairy  forms  over  floor,  and  wall,  and 
ceiling. 

My  fancy  would  sorely  quicken,  thought  I,  if  such 
being  were  in  attendance.  Surely  imagination  would 
be  stronger  and  purer,  if  it  could  have  the  playful 
fancies  of  dawning  womanhood  to  delight  it.  All 
toil  would  be  torn  from  mind-labor,  if  but  another 
heart  grew  into  this  present  soul,  quickening  it, 
warming  it,  cheering  it,  bidding  it  ever  God  speed  ! 

Her  face  would  make  a  halo,  rich  as  a  rainbow, 
atop  of  all  such  noisome  things  as  we  lonely  souls 
call  trouble.  Her  smile  would  illumine  the  blackest 
of  crowding  cares ;  and  darkness  that  now  seats  you 
despondent  in  your  solitary  chair  for  days  together, 
weaving  bitter  fancies,  dreaming  bitter  dreams, 
would  grow  light  and  thin,  and  spread  and  float 
away,  chased  by  that  beloved  smile. 

Your  friend  —  poor  fellow!  —  dies:  never  mind, 
that  gentle  clasp  of  her  fingers,  as  she  steals  behind 
you,  telling  you  not  to  mourn,  —  it  is  worth  ten 
friends! 

Tour  sister,  sweet  one,  is  dead — buried.  The 
worms  are  busy  with  all  her  fairness.  How  it  makes 
you  think  earth  nothing  but  a  spot  to  dig  graves 
upon! 

It  is  more.  She,  she  says,  will  be  a  sister ; 

and  the  waving  curls,  as  she  leans  upon  your 


BLAZE  — SIGNIFYING    CHEER.  21 

shoulder,  touch  your  cheek  ;  and  your  wet  eye  turns 
to  meet  those  other  eyes  —  God  has  sent  his  angel, 
surely  ! 

Your  mother,  alas  for  it,  —  she  is  gone.  Is  there 
any  bitterness  to  a  youth,  alone  and  homeless,  like 
this? 

»     But  you  are  not  homeless ;  you  are  not  alone  :  she 
'  is  there  ;  her  smile  lighting  yours,  her  grief  killing 
yours ;  and  you  live  again,  to  assuage  that  kind  sor 
row  of  hers. 

Then,  those  children,  rosy,  fair -haired ;  no,  they 
do  not  disturb  you  with  their  prattle  now  ;  they  are 
yours.  Toss  away  there  on  the  greensward  ;  never 
mind  the  hyacinths,  the  snowdrops,  the  violets,  if  so 
be  any  are  there  ;  the  perfume  of  their  healthful  lips 
is  worth  all  the  flowers  of  the  world.  No  need  now 
to  gather  wild  bouquets  to  love  and  cherish :  flower, 
tree,  gun,  are  all  dead  things  ;  things  livelier  hold 
your  souL 

And  she,  the  mother,  sweetest  and  fairest  of  all, 
watching,  tending,  caressing,  loving,  till  your  own 
heart  grows  pained  with  tenderest  jealousy,  and 
cures  itself  with  loving. 

You  have  no  need  now  of  any  cold  lecture  to  teach 
thankfulness  :  your  heart  is  full  of  it.  No  need  now, 
as  once,  of  bursting  blossoms,  of  trees  taking  leaf  and 
greenness,  to  turn  thought  kindly  and  thankfully; 


22  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

for  ever  beside  you  there  is  bloom,  and  ever  beside 
you  there  is  fruit,  for  which  eye,  heart,  and  soul  are 
full  of  unknown  and  unspoken,  because  unspeakable 
thank-offering. 

And  if  sickness  catches  you,  binds  you,  lays  you 
down :  no  lonely  meanings,  and  wicked  curses  at 
careless  stepping  nurses.  The  step  is  noiseless,  and 
yet  distinct  beside  you.  The  white  curtains  are 
drawn,  or  withdrawn,  by  the  magic  of  that  other 
presence  ;  and  the  soft,  cool  hand  is  upon  your  brow. 

No  cold  comfortings  of  friend-watchers,  merely 
come  in  to  steal  a  word,  away  from  that  outer  world 
which  is  pulling  at  their  skirts  ;  but,  ever,  the  sad, 
shaded  brow  of  her,  whose  lightest  sorrow  for  your 
sake  is  your  greatest  grief,  if  it  were  not  a  greater 

j°y- 

The  Blaze  was  leaping  light  and  high,  and  the 
wood  falling  under  the  growing  heat. 

So,  continued  I,  this  heart  would  be  at  length 

itself ;  striving  with  everything  gross,  even  now  as 
it  clings  to  grossness.  Earth's  cares  would  fly.  Joys 
would  double.  Susceptibilities  be  quickened  ;  Love 
master  self ;  and  having  made  the  mastery,  stretch 
onward,  and  upward  toward  Infinitude. 

And  if  the  end  came,  and  sickness  brought  that 
follower — Great  Follower  —  which  sooner  or  later 
is  sure  to  come  after,  then  the  heart,  and  the  hand 


BLAZE  — SIGNIFYING   CHEER.  23 

of  Love,  ever  near,  are  giving  to  your  tired  soul, 
daily  and  hourly,  lessons  of  that  love  which  consoles, 
which  triumphs,  which  circleth  all,  and  centreth  in 
all,  —  Love  Infinite  and  Divine. 

Kind  hands  —  none  but  hers  —  will  smooth  the 
hair  upon  your  brow  as  the  chill  grows  damp  and 
heavy  on  it ;  and  her  fingers  —  none  but  hers  —  will 
lie  in  yours  as  the  wasted  flesh  stiffens,  and  hardens 
for  the  ground.  Her  tears  —  you  could  feel  no 
others,  if  oceans  fell  —  will  warm  your  drooping 
features  once  more  to  life ;  once  more  your  eye, 
lighted  in  joyous  triumph,  kindle  in  her  smile,  and 
then 

The  fire  fell  upon  the  hearth ;  the  Blaze  gave  a  last 
leap,  —  a  flicker,  —  then  another,  —  caught  a  little 
remaining  twig,  —  flashed  up,  —  wavered,  —  went 
out. 

There  was  nothing  but  a  bed  of  glowing  embers, 
over  which  the  white  Ashes  gathered  fast.  I  was 
alone,  with  only  my  dog  for  company. 


m. 

Ashes  —  Signifying  Desolation. 

A  FTER  all,  thought  I,  Ashes  follow  Blaze,  inevi- 
-£^-  tably  as  Death  follows  Life.  Misery  treads  on 
the  heels  of  Joy  ;  Anguish  rides  swift  after  Pleasure. 

"Come  to  me  again,  Carlo,"  said  I  to  my  dog; 
and  I  patted  him  fondly  once  more,  but  now  only 
by  the  light  of  the  dying  embers. 

It  is  very  little  pleasure  one  takes  in  fondling 
brute  favorites ;  but  it  is  a  pleasure  that  when  it 
passes  leaves  no  void.  It  is  only  a  little  alleviating 
redundance  in  your  solitary  heart-life,  which,  if 
lost,  another  can  be  supplied. 

But  if  your  heart  —  not  solitary,  not  quieting  its 
humors  with  mere  love  of  chase  or  dog,  not  repress 
ing  year  after  year  its  earnest  yearnings  after  some 
thing  better  and  more  spiritual  —  lias  fairly  linked 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      25 

itself  by  bonds  strong  as  life  to  another  heart,  is 
the  casting  off  easy,  then  ? 

Is  it  then  only  a  little  heart-redundancy  cut  off 
which  the  next  bright  sunset  -will  fill  up  ? 

And  my  fancy,  as  it  had  painted  Doubt  under  the 
Smoke,  and  Cheer  under  warmth  of  the  Blaze,  so 
now  it  began,  under  the  faint  light  of  the  smoulder 
ing  embers,  to  picture  heart-desolation. 

What  kind,  congratulatory  letters,  hosts  of 

them,  coming  from  old  and  half -forgotten  friends, 
now  that  your  happiness  is  a  year,  or  two  years 
old! 

"Beautiful." 

Aye,  to  be  sure,  beautiful ! 

"Kich." 

Pho,  the  dawdler!    how  little  he  knows  of 

heart-treasure  who  speaks  of  wealth  to  a  man  who 
loves  his  wife,  as  a  wife  only  should  be  loved  ! 

"Young." 

Young  indeed ;  guileless  as  infancy ;  charm 
ing  as  the  morning. 

Ah,  these  letters  bear  a  sting :  they  bring  to  mind, 
with  new  and  newer  freshness,  if  it  be  possible,  the 
value  of  that  which  you  tremble  lest  you  lose. 

How  anxiously  you  watch  that  step,  if  it  lose  not 
its  buoyancy  ;  how  you  study  the  color  on  that  cheek, 
if  it  grow  not  fainter  ;  how  you  tremble  at  the  lustre 


26  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

in  those  eyes,  if  it  be  not  the  lustre  of  Death  ;  ho\v 
you  totter  under  the  weight  of  that  muslin  sleeve  — 
a  phantom  weight !  How  you  fear  to  do  it,  and  yet 
press  forward,  to  note  if  that  breathing  be  quick 
ened,  as  you  ascend  the  home-heights,  to  look  off 
on  sunset  lighting  the  plain. 

Is  your  sleep  quiet  sleep,  after  that  she  has  whis 
pered  to  you  her  fears  ;  and  in  the  same  breath  — 
soft  as  a  sigh,  sharp  as  an  arrow  —  bid  you  bear  it 
bravely  ? 

Perhaps  —  the  embers  were  now  glowing  fresher, 
a  little  kindling,  before  the  Ashes  —  she  triumphs 
over  disease. 

But  Poverty,  the  world's  almoner,  has  come  to 
you  wi.th  ready,  spare  hand. 

Alone,  with  your  dog  living  on  bones,  and  you  on 
hope  —  kindling  each  morning,  dying  slowly  each 
night,  —  this  could  be  borne.  Philosophy  would 
bring  home  its  stores  to  the  lone  man.  Money  is  not 
in  his  hand,  but  Knowledge  is  in  his  brain  ;  and 
from  that  brain  he  draws  out  faster,  as  he  draws 
slower  from  his  pocket.  He  remembers  :  and  on 
remembrance  he  can  live  for  days,  and  weeks.  The 
garret,  if  a  garret  covers  him,  is  rich  in  fancies.  The 
rain,  if  it  pelts,  pelts  only  him  used  to  rain-pel  tings. 
And  his  dog  crouches  not  in  dread,  but  in  com 
panionship.  His  crust  he  divides  with  him,  and 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      27 

laughs.  He  crowns  himself  with  glorious  memories 
of  Cervantes,  though  he  begs  :  if  he  nights  it  under 
the  stars,  he  dreams  heaven-sent  dreams  of  the 
prisoned  and  homeless  Galileo. 

He  hums  old  sonnets,  and  snatches  of  poor  Jon 
son's  plays.  He  chants  Dry  den's  odes,  and  dwells 
on  Otway's  rhyme.  He  reasons  with  Bolingbroke 
or  Diogenes,  as  the  humor  takes  him  ;  and  laughs 
at  the  world  :  for  the  world,  thank  Heaven,  has  left 
him  alone. 

Keep  your  money,  old  misers,  and  your  palaces, 
old  princes,  —  the  world  is  mine  ! 

"  I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny. 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace, 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face  ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve. 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave  : 
Of  Fancy,  Reason,  Virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave  !  M 

But  —  if  not  alone  ? 

If  she  is  clinging  to  you  for  support,  for  conso 
lation,  for  home,  for  life,  —  she,  reared  in  luxury 
perhaps,  is  faint  for  bread  ? 

Then,  the  iron  enters  the  soul ;  then  the  nighta 


28  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

darken  under  any  skylight.  Then  the  days  grow 
long,  even  in  the  solstice  of  winter. 

She  may  not  complain  ;  what  then  ? 

Will  your  heart  grow  strong,  if  the  strength  of 
her  love  can  dam  up  the  fountains  of  tears,  and  the 
tied  tongue  not  tell  of  bereavement  ?  Will  it  solace 
you  to  find  her  parting  the  poor  treasure  of  food  you 
have  stolen  for  her,  with  begging,  foodless  children  ? 

But  this  ill,  strong  hands,  and  Heaven's  help,  will 
put  down.  Wealth  again  ;  Flowers  again  ;  Patri 
monial  acres  again ;  Brightness  again.  But  your 
little  Bessy,  your  favorite  child,  is  pining. 

Would  to  God  !  you  say  in  agony,  that  wealth 
could  bring  fulness  again  into  that  blanched  cheek, 
or  round  those  little  thin  lips  once  more  ;  but  it  can 
not.  Thinner  and  thinner  they  grow  ;  plaintive  and 
more  plaintive  her  sweet  voice. 

"  Dear  Bessy  "  —  and  your  tonqs  tremble  ;  you 
feel  that  she  is  on  the  edge  of  the  grave  ?  Can  you 
pluck  her  back  ?  Can  endearments  stay  her  ?  Bus 
iness  is  heavy,  away  from  the  loved  child  ;  home  you 
go,  to  fondle  while  yet  time  is  left ;  but  this  time 
you  are  too  late.  She  is  gone.  She  cannot  hear 
you :  she  cannot  thank  you  for  the  violets  you  put 
within  her  stiff  white  hand. 

And  then  —  the  grassy  mound  —  the  cold  shadow 
of  the  headstone  ! 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      29 

The  wind,  growing  with  the  night,  is  rattling  at 
the  window-panes,  and  whistles  dismally  ;  and,  in 
the  interval  of  my  Reverie,  I  thank  God  that  I  am 
no  such  mourner. 

But  gayety,  snail-footed,  creeps  back  to  the  house 
hold.  All  is  bright  again  ;  — 

the  violet  bed's  not  sweeter 
Than  the  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth. 

Her  lip  is  rich  and  full ;  her  cheek  delicate  as  a 
flower.  Her  frailty  doubles  your  love. 

And  the  little  one  she  clasps  —  frail  too  —  too 
frail ;  the  boy  you  had  set  your  hopes  and  heart  on. 
You  have  watched  him  growing,  ever  prettier,  ever 
winning  more  and  more  upon  your  soul.  The  love 
you  bore  to  him  when  he  first  lisped  names  —  your 
name  and  hers  —  has  doubled  in  strength,  now  that 
he  asks  innocently  to  be  taught  of  this  or  that,  and 
promises  you,  by  that  quick  curiosity  that  flashes  in 
his  eye,  a  mind  full  of  intelligence. 

And  some  hair-breadth  escape  by  sea  or  flood, 
that  he  perhaps  may  have  had,  —  which  unstrung 
your  soul  to  such  grief  as  you  pray  God  may  be 
spared  you  again,  —  has  endeared  the  little  fellow 
to  your  heart  a  thousand-fold. 

And  now,  with  his  pale   sister  in  the  grave,  all 


30  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

that  love  has  come  away  from  the  mound,  where 
worms  prey,  and  centres  on  the  boy. 

How  you  watch  the  storms  lest  they  harm  him. 
How  often  you  steal  to  his  bed  late  at  night,  and  lay 
your  hand  lightly  upon  the  brow,  where  the  curls 
cluster  thick,  rising  and  falling  with  the  throbbing 
temples,  and  watch,  for  minutes  together,  the  little 
lips  half  parted,  and  listen  —  your  ear  close  to  them 

—  if  the  breathing  be  regular  and  sweet. 

But  the  day  comes  —  the  night  rather  —  when 
you  can  catch  no  breathing. 

Aye,  put  your  hair  away  ;  compose  yourself ;  listen 
again. 

No,  there  is  nothing  ! 

Put  your  hand  now  to  his  brow,  —  damp,  indeed 
but  not  with  healthful  night-sleep ;  it  is  not  your  hand, 

—  no,  do  not  deceive  yourself,  —  it  is  your  loved 
boy's  forehead  that  is  so  cold ;  and  your  loved  boy 
will  never  speak  to  you  again  —  never  play  again  — 
he  is  dead ! 

Ah,  the  tears  —  the  tears !  Never  fear  now  to  let 
them  fall  on  his  forehead,  or  his  lip,  lest  you  waken 
him.  Clasp  him  —  clasp  him  harder  ;  you  cannot 
hurt,  you  cannot  waken  him.  Lay  him  down,  gent 
ly  or  not,  it  is  the  same  ;  he  is  stiff ;  he  is  stark  and 
cold. 

But  courage  is  elastic  ;  it  is  our  pride.    It  recovers 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      31 

itself  easier,  thought  I,  than  these  embers  will  get 
into  Blaze  again. 

But  courage,  and  patience,  and  faith,  and  hope 
have  their  limit.  Blessed  be  the  man  who  escapes 
such  trial  as  will  determine  limit ! 

To  a  lone  man  it  comes  not  near  ;  for  how  can  trial 
take  hold  where  there  is  nothing  by  which  to  try  ? 

A  funeral?  You  philosophize.'  A  grave-yard? 
You  read  Hervey,  and  muse  upon  the  wall.  A 
friend  dies  ?  You  sigh,  you  pat  your  dog ;  it  is 
over.  Losses  ?  You  retrench  ;  you  light  your  pipe  ; 
it  is  forgotten.  Calumny  ?  You  laugh  —  you  sleep. 

But  with  that  childless  wife  clinging  to  you  in 
love  and  sorrow  —  what  then  ? 

Can  you  take  down  Seneca  now,  and  coolly  blow 
the  dust  from  the  leaf-tops  ?  Can  you  crimp  your 
lip  with  Voltaire  ?  Can  you  smoke  idly,  your  feet 
dangling  with  the  ivies,  your  thoughts  all  waving 
fancies  upon  a  church-yard  wall,  —  a  wall  that 
borders  the  grave  of  your  boy  ? 

Can  you  amuse  yourself  by  turning  stinging  Mar 
tial  into  rhyme  ?  Can  you  pat  your  dog,  and  seeing 
him  wakeful  and  kind,  say  "it  is  enough"?  Can 
you  sneer  at  calumny,  and  sit  by  your  fire  dozing? 

Blessed,  thought  I  again,  is  the  man  who  escapes 
such  trials  as  will  measure  the  limit  of  patience  and 
the  limit  of  courage ! 


32  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

But  the  trial  comes :  —  colder  and  colder  were 
growing  the  embers. 

That  wife,  over  whom  your  love  broods,  is  fading. 
Not  beauty  fading  ;  that,  now  that  your  heart  is 
wrapped  in  her  being,  would  be  nothing. 

She  sees  with  quick  eye  your  dawning  apprehen 
sion,  and  she  tries  hard  to  make  that  step  of  hers 
elastic. 

Your  trials  and  your  loves  together  have  centred 
your  affections.  They  are  not  now  as  when  you 
were  a  lone  man,  widespread  and  superficial.  They 
have  caught  from  domestic  attachments  a  finer  tone 
and  touch.  They  cannot  shoot  out  tendrils  into 
barren  world-soil,  and  suck  up  thence  strengthening 
nourishment.  They  have  grown  under  the  forcing- 
glass  of  home-roof :  they  will  not  now  bear  expos 
ure. 

You  do  not  now  look  men  in  the  face  as  if  a  heart- 
bond  was  linking  you  —  as  if  a  community  of  feel 
ing  lay  between.  There  is  a  heart-bond  that  absorbs 
all  others  ;  there  is  a  community  that  monopolizes 
your  feeling.  When  the  heart  lay  wide  open,  before 
it  had  grown  upon  and  closed  around  particular  ob 
jects,  it  could  take  strength  and  cheer  from  a  hun 
dred  connections  that  now  seem  colder  than  ice. 

And  now  those  particular  objects,  alas  for  you ! 
are  failing. 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      33 

What  anxiety  pursues  you !  How  you  struggle  to 
fancy  —  there  is  no  danger  ;  how  she  struggles  to 
persuade  you  — •  there  is  no  danger  ! 

How  it  grates  now  on  your  ear  —  the  toil  and 
turmoil  of  the  city !  It  was  music  when  you  were 
alone  ;  it  was  pleasant  even,  when  from  the  din  you 
were  elaborating  comforts  for  the  cherished  objects, 
—  when  you  had  such  sweet  escape  as  evening  drew 
on. 

Now  it  maddens  you  to  see  the  world  careless 
while  you  are  steeped  in  care.  They  hustle  you 
in  the  street ;  they  smile  at  you  across  the  table  ; 
they  bow  carelessly  over  the  way ;  they  do  not  know 
what  canker  is  at  your  heart. 

The  undertaker  comes  with  his  bill  for  the  dead 
boy's  funeral.  He  knows  your  grief ;  he  is  respect 
ful.  You  bless  him  in  your  soul.  You  wish  the 
laughing  street-goers  were  all  undertakers. 

Your  eye  follows  the  physician  as  he  leaves  your 
house  :  is  he  wise  ?  you  ask  yourself ;  is  he  prudent  ? 
is  he  the  best  ?  Did  he  never  fail ;  is  he  never  for 
getful? 

And  now  the  hand  that  touches  yours  —  is  it  no 
thinner,  no  whiter  than  yesterday  ?  Sunny  days 
come  when  she  revives ;  color  comes  back  ;  she 
breathes  freer ;  she  picks  flowers  ;  she  meets  you 
with  a  smile  :  hope  lives  again. 


34  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

But  the  next  day  of  storm  she  is  fallen.  She  can 
not  talk  even  ;  she  presses  your  hand. 

You  hurry  away  from  business  before  your  time. 
What  matter  for  clients  ;  who  is  to  reap  the  rewards  ? 
What  matter  for  fame  ;  whose  eye  will  it  brighten  ? 
What  matter  for  riches  ;  whose  is  the  inheritance  ? 

You  find  her  propped  with  pillows  ;  she  is  look 
ing  over  a  little  picture-book  bethumbed  by  the  dear 
boy  she  has  lost.  She  hides  it  in  her  chair  ;  she  has 
pity  on  you. 

Another  day  of  revival,  when  the  spring  sun 

shines,  and  flowers  open  out-of-doors  ;  she  leans  on 
your  arm,  and  strolls  into  the  garden  where  the  first 
birds  are  singing.  Listen  to  them  with  her" ;  what 
memories  are  in  bird-songs  !  You  need  not  shudder 
at  her  tears  ;  they  are  tears  of  Thanksgiving.  Press 
the  hand  that  lies  light  upon  your  arm,  and  you,  too, 
thank  God,  while  yet  you  may.  • 

You  are  early  home — mid-afternoon.  Your  step  is 
not  light ;  it  is  heavy,  terrible. 

They  have  sent  for  you. 

She  is  lying  down,  her  eyes  half  closed,  her 
breathing  slow  and  interrupted. 

She  hears  you  ;  her  eye  opens ;  you  put  your 
hand  in  hers  ;  yours  trembles  ;  hers  does  not.  Her 
lips  move  :  it  is  your  name. 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      35 

"Be  strong,"  she  says  ;  "  God  will  help  you." 
She  presses  harder  your  hand  :  "  Adieu  ! " 
A  long  breath,  —  another  ;  you  are  alone  again. 
No  tears  now  ;  poor  man  !  you  cannot  find  them. 

Again  home  early.  There  is  a  smell  of  var 
nish  in  your  house.  A  coffin  is  there  ;  they  have 
clothed  the  body  in  decent  grave-clothes,  and  the 
undertaker  is  screwing  down  the  lid,  slipping  round 
on  tiptoe.  Does  he  fear  to  waken  her  ? 

He  asks  you  a  simple  question  about  the  inscrip 
tion  upon  the  plate,  rubbing  it  with  his  coat-cuff. 
You  look  him  straight  in  the  eye  ;  you  motion  to  the 
door ;  you  dare  not  speak. 

He  takes  up  his  hat,  and  glides  out  stealthful  as  a 
cat. 

The  man  has  done  his  work  well  for  all.  It  is  a 
nice  coffin,  a  very  nice  coffin.  Pass  your  hand  over 
it ;  how  smooth  ! 

Some  sprigs  of  mignonette  are  lying  carelessly  in 
a  little  gilt-edged  saucer.  She  loved  mignonette. 

It  is  a  good  stanch  table  the  coffin  rests  on  ;  it  is 
your  table  ;  you  are  a  housekeeper,  a  man  of  family. 

Aye,  of  family  !  keep  down  outcry,  or  the  nurse 
will  be  in.  Look  over  at  the  pinched  features ;  is 
this  all  that  is  left  of  her?  And  where  is  your  heart 
now  ?  No,  don't  thrust  your  nails  into  your  hands, 


36  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

nor  mangle  your  lip,  nor  grate  your  teeth  together. 
If  you  could  only  weep  ! 

Another  day.  The  coffin  is  gone  out.  The 

stupid  mourners  have  wept  —  what  idle  tears  !  She 
with  your  crushed  heart,  lias  gone  out. 

Will  you  have  pleasant  evenings  at  your  home 
now? 

Go  into  your  parlor  that  your  prim  housekeeper 
has  made  comfortable  with  clean  hearth  and  blaze 
of  sticks. 

Sit  down  in  your  chair  ;  there  is  another  velvet- 
cushioned  one,  over  against  yours,  empty.  You 
press  your  fingers  on  your  eyeballs,  as  if  you  would 
press  out  something  that  hurt  the  brain  ;  but  you 
cannot.  Your  head  leans  upon  your  hand  ;  your 
eye  rests  upon  the  flashing  Blaze. 

Ashes  always  come  after  Blaze. 

Go  now  into  the  room  where  she  was  sick,  — 
softly,  lest  the  prim  housekeeper  come  after. 

They  have  put  new  dimity  upon  her  chair  ;  they 
have  hung  new  curtains  over  the  bed.  They  have 
removed  from  the  stand  its  phials,  and  silver  bell ; 
they  have  put  a  little  vase  of  flowers  in  their  place  ; 
the  perfume  will  not  offend  the  sick  sense  now. 
They  have  half  opened  the  window,  that  the  room 
so  long  closed  may  have  air.  It  will  not  be  too  cold. 

She  is  not  there. 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      37 
—  Oh  God  !  tliou  who  dost  temper  the  wind  to 


the  shorn  lamb,  be  kind  ! 

The  embers  were  dark  :  I  stirred  them  ;  there  was 
no  sign  of  life.  My  dog  was  asleep.  The  clock  in 
my  tenant's  chamber  had  struck  one. 

I  dashed  a  tear  or  two  from  my  eyes ;  how  they 
came  there  I  know  not.  I  half  ejaculated  a  prayer 
of  thanks  that  such  desolation  had  not  yet  come  nigh 
me,  and  a  prayer  of  hope  that  it  might  never  come. 

In  a  half  hour  more  I  was  sleeping  soundly.  My 
Heverie  was  ended. 


SECOND  REVERIE. 

SEA-COAL  AND  ANTHRACITE. 


BY  A    CITY   GRATE. 


BLESSED  be  letters  !  —  they  are  the  monitors, 
they  are  also  the  comforters,  and  they  are  the 
only  true  heart-talkers.  Your  speech,  and  their 
speeches,  are  conventional ;  they  are  moulded  by 
circumstance  ;  they  are  suggested  by  the  observation, 
remark,  and  influence  of  the  parties  to  whom  the 
speaking  is  addressed,  or  by  whom  it  may  be  over 
heard. 

Your  truest  thought  is  modified  half  through  its 
utterance  by  a  look,  a  sign,  a  smile,  or  a  sneer.  It 
is  not  individual :  it  is  not  integral :  it  is  social  and 
mixed,  —  half  of  you,  and  half  of  others.  It  bends, 
it  sways,  it  multiplies,  it  retires,  and  it  advances,  as 
the  talk  of  others  presses,  relaxes,  or  quickens. 

But  it  is  not  so  of  Letters.  There  you  are,  vwith 
only  the  soulless  pen,  and  the  snow-white,  virgin 


42  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

paper..  Your  soul  is  measuring  itself  by  itself,  and 
saying  its  own  sayings  :  there  are  no  sneers  to  modify 
its  utterance,  —  no  scowl  to  scare  ;  nothing  is  pres 
ent  but  you  and  your  thought. 

Utter  it  then  freely  ;  write  it  down  ;  stamp  it ; 
burn  it  in  the  ink  ;  —  There  it  is,  a  true  soul-print. 

Ah,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion  of  a  letter ! 
It  is  worth  all  the  lip-talk  in  the  world.  Do  you  say, 
it  is  studied,  made  up,  acted,  rehearsed,  contrived, 
artistic  ? 

Let  me  see  it  then  ;  let  me  run  it  over ;  tell  me 
age,  sex,  circumstance,  and  I  will  tell  you  if  it  be 
studied  or  real,  —  if  it  be  the  merest  lip-slang  put 
into  words,  or  heart-talk  blazing  on  the  paper. 

I  have  a  little  packet,  —  not  very  large,  —  tied  up 
with  narrow  crimson  ribbon,  now  soiled  with  fre 
quent  handling,  which  far  into  some  winter's  night  I 
take  down  from  its  nook  upon  my  shelf,  and  untie, 
and  open,  and  run  over,  with  such  sorrow  and  such 
joy,  as  I  am  sure  make  me  for  weeks  after  a  kindlier 
and  honester  man. 

There  are  in  this  little  packet,  letters  in  the  famil 
iar  hand  of  a  mother  ;  —  what  gentle  admonition  ; 
what  tender  affection !  God  have  mercy  on  him  who 
outlives  the  Sentiment  that  such  admonitions  and 
such  affection  kindle  !  There  are  others  in  the  bud 
get,  in  the  delicate  and  unformed  hand  of  a  loved 


BY  A    CITY  GRATE,  43 

and  lost  sister,  —  written  when  she  and  you  were 
full  of  glee,  and  the  best  mirth  of  youthfulness  ; 
does  it  harm  you  to  recall  that  mirthfulness  ?  or  to 
trace  again,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that  scrawling 
postscript  at  the  bottom,  with  its  i's  so  carefully  dot 
ted,  and  its  gigantic  t's  so  carefully  crossed,  by  the 
childish  hand  of  a  little  brother  ? 

I  have  added  latterly  to  that  packet  of  letters.  I 
almost  need  a  new  and  longer  ribbon  ;  the  old  one 
is  getting  too  short.  Not  a  few  of  these  new  and 
cherished  letters  a  former  Reverie  *  has  brought  to 
me  ;  not  letters  of  cold  praise,  saying  it  was  well  done, 
artfully  executed,  prettily  imagined  ;  no  such  thing : 
but  letters  of  sympathy  —  of  sympathy  which  means 
sympathy  —  the  TraOrj^C  and  the  a-vv. 

It  would  be  cold  and  dastardly  work  to  copy  them  ; 
I  am  too  selfish  for  that.  It  is  enough  to  say  that 
they,  the  kind  writers,  have  seen  a  hearty  earnestness 
in  the  Reverie, —  have  felt  that  it  was  in  a  certain 
sense  real,  and  true.  What  matters  it,  pray,  if  lit 
erally  there  was  no  wife,  and  no  dead  child,  and  no 
coffin,  in  the  house  ?  Is  not  feeling,  feeling ;  and 
heart,  heart?  Are  not  these  fancies  thronging  on 

*  The  first  Reverie — Smoke,  Flame,  and  Ashes— was  pub 
lished  •  some  months  previous  to  this,  in  the  Southern  Liter 
ary  Messenger. 


44  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

my  brain,  bringing  their  own  sorrows,  and  their  own 
joys,  as  living  as  anything  human  can  be  living? 
What  if  they  have  no  material  type — no  objective 
form  ?  All  that  is  crude  —  a  mere  reduction  of  ideal 
ity  to  sense, —  a  transformation  of  the  spiritual  to  the 
earthy, — a  levelling  of  soul  to  matter. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  passion  ?  Is 
anything  about  us  more  earnest  than  that  same 
thought  and  passion  ?  Is  there  anything  more 
real, — more  characteristic  of  that  great  and  dim 
destiny  to  which  we  are  bom,  and  which  may  be 
Written  down  in  that  terrible  word  —  Forever  ? 

Let  those  who  will,  then,  sneer  at  what  in  their 
wisdom  they  call  untruth, —  at  what  is  false,  because 
it  has  no  material  presence  ;  this  does  not  create  fal 
sity  ;  would  to  Heaven  that  it  did  ! 

And  yet,  if  there  was  actual,  material  truth,  super- 
added  to  Reverie,  would  such  objectors  sympathize 
the  more  ?  No  :  a  thousand  times,  no  ;  the  heart 
that  has  no  sympathy  with  thoughts  and  feelings  that 
scorch  the  soul,  is  dead  also  —  whatever  its  mocking 
gestures  may  say  —  to  a  coffin  or  a  grave. 

Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to  these 

0 

cherished  letters. 

A  mother,  who  has  lost  a  child,  has,  she  says,  shed 
a  tear — not  one,  but  many  —  over  the  dead  boy's 
coldness.  And  another,  who  has  not  lost,  but  who 


» 

BY  A    CITY  GRATE.  45 

trembles  lest  she  lose,  has  found  the  words  failing 
as  she  read,  and  a  dim,  sorrow-borne  mist  spread 
ing  over  the  page. 

Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those  family  ties  that 
make  life  a  charm,  has  listened  nervously  to  careful 
reading,  until  the  husband  is  called  home,  and  the 
coffin  is  in  the  house.  "  Stop  !  "  she  says  ;  and  a 
deep  sob  tells  the  rest. 

Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say,  "It  was  artfully  done." 
A  curse  on  him  !  it  was  not  art :  it  was  nature. 

Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl-mind,  has 
seen  something  in  the  love-picture  —  albeit  so  weak 
—  of  truth  ;  and  has  kindly  believed  that  it  must  be 
earnest.  Aye,  indeed  is  it,  fair  and  generous  one, 
earnest  as  life  and  hope.  Who,  indeed,  with  a  heart 
at  all,  that  has  not  yet  slipped  away  irreparably  and 
forever  from  the  shores  of  youth, —  from  that  faii-y 
land  which  young  enthusiasm  creates,  and  over  which 
bright  dreams  hover, —  but  knows  it  to  be  real? 
And  so  such  things  will  be  real,  till  hopes  are 
dashed,  and  Death  is  come. 

Another,  a  father,  has  laid  down  the  book,  over 
come  by  ite  story  of  his  own  griefs. 

— God  bless  them  all !  I  count  this  better  than 
the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  paragraphs,  or  the  criti 
cally  contrived  approval  of  colder  friends. 

Let  me  gather  up  these  letters  carefully,  to  be  read 


46  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

when  the  heart  is  faint  and  sick  of  all  that  there  ia 
unreal  and  selfish  in  the  world.  Let  me  tie  them  to 
gether  with  a  new  and  longer  bit  of  ribbon  ;  not  by 
a  love-knot,  that  is  too  hard  ;  but  by  an  easy  slipping 
knot,  that  so  I  may  get  at  them  the  better.  And  now 
they  are  all  together,  a  snug  packet,  and  we  will  label 
them,  not  sentimentally  (I  pity  the  one  who  thinks 
it,)  but  earnestly,  and  in  the  best  meaning  of  the 
term, —  SOUVENIRS  r»u  CCEUR. 

Thanks  to  my  first  Keverie,  which  has  added  to 
this  cherished  budget  of  letters. 

—  And  now  to  my  SECOND  KEVERIE. 

I  am  no  longer  in  the  country.  The  fields,  the 
trees,  the  brooks  are  far  away  from  me,  and  yet  they 
are  very  present.  A  letter  from  my  tenant  —  how 
different  from  those  other  letters  —  lies  upon  my 
table,  telling  me  what  fields  he  has  broken  up  for  the 
autumn  grain,  and  how  many  beeves  he  is  fattening, 
and  how  the  potatoes  are  turning  out. 

But  I  am  in  a  garret  of  the  city.  From  my  win 
dow  I  look  over  a  mass  of  crowded  house-tops,  — 
moralizing  often  upon  the  scene,  but  in  a  strain  too 
long  and  sombre^to  be  set  down  here.  In  place  of 
the  wide  country  chimney,  with  its  iron  fire-dogs,  is 
a  snug  grate,  where  the  maid  makes  for  me  a  fire  in 
the  morning,  and  rekindles  it  in  the  afternoon. 

I  am  usually  fairly  seated  in  my  chair  —  a  cosily 


BY  A    CITY  GRATE.  47 

stuffed  office-chair —  by  five  or  six  o'clock  of  the  even* 
ing.  The  fire  has  been  newly  made,  perhaps  an  hour 
before  :  first,  the  maid  drops  a  wisp  of  paper  in  the 
bottom  of  the  grate,  then  a  stick  or  two  of  pine-wood, 
and  after  it  a  hod  of  Liverpool  coal ;  so  that  by  the 
time  I  am  seated  for  the  evening,  the  Sea-coal  is  fairly 
in  a  blaze. 

"When  this  has  sunk  to  a  level  with  the  second  bar 
of  the  grate,  the  maid  replenishes  it  with  a  hod  of 
Anthracite  ;  and  I  sit  musing  and  reading,  while  the 
new  coal  warms  and  kindles  ;  not  leaving  my  place, 
until  it  has  sunk  to  the  third  bar  of  the  grate,  which 
marks  my  bedtime. 

I  love  these  accidental  measures  of  the  hours, 
which  belong  to  you,  and  your  life,  and  not  to  the 
world.  A  watch  is  no  more  the  measure  of  your 
time  than  of  the  time  of  your  neighbors  ;  a  church- 
clock  is  as  public  and  vulgar  as  a  church-warden. 
I  would  as  soon  think  of  hiring  the  parish  sexton  to 
make  my  bed,  as  to  regulate  my  time  by  the  parish 
clock. 

A  shadow  that  the  sun  casts  upon  your  carpet,  or 
a  streak  of  light  on  a  slated  roof  yonder,  or  the 
burning  of  your  fire,  are  pleasant  time-keepers,  — 
full  of  presence,  full  of  companionship,  and  full  of 
warning  —  time  is  passing  ! 

In  the  summer  season  I  have  even  measured  my 


48  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

reading,  and  my  night-watch,  by  the  burning  of  a 
taper  ;  and  I  have  scratched  upon  the  handle  to  the 
little  bronze  taper-holder  that  meaning  passage  of 
the  New  Testament,  — Nu£  yap  ep^crai,  —  the  night 
cometh ! 

But  I  must  get  upon  my  Keverie.  It  was  a  drizzly 
evening ;  I  had  worked  hard  during  the  day,  and 
had  drawn  my  boots,  thrust  my  feet  into  slippers, 
thrown  on  a  Turkish  loose  dress  and  Greek  cap, 
souvenirs  to  me  of  other  times  and  other  places,  — 
and  sat  watching  the  lively,  uncertain  yellow  play  of 
the  bituminous  flame. 


I. 

Sea-Coal. 

T  T  is  like  a  flirt,  mused  I :  lively,  uncertain,  bright- 
-*-  colored,  waving  here  and  there,  melting  the  coal 
into  black,  shapeless  mass ;  making  foul,  sooty 
smoke,  and  pasty,  trashy  residuum.  Yet  withal, 
making  flame  that  is  pleasantly  sparkling,  dancing, 
prettily  waving,  and  leaping  like  a  roebuck  from 
point  to  point. 

How  like  a  flirt !  And  yet  is  not  that  tossing 
caprice  of  girlhood,  to  which  I  liken  my  Sea-coal 
flame,  a  natural  play  of  life,  and  belonging  by  nature 
to  the  play-time  of  life  ?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  essential 
fire-kindling  to  the  weightier  and  truer  passions, 
even  as  Jenny  puts  the  Sea-coal  first,  the  better  to 
kindle  the  Anthracite  ?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  necessary 
consumption  of  young  vapors,  which  float  in  the 
4 


50  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

soul,  and  which  is  left  thereafter  the  purer?  Is 
there  not  a  stage  somewhere  in  every  man's  youth 
for  just  such  waving,  idle  heart-blaze,  which  means 
nothing,  yet  Avhich  must  be  gone  over? 

Lamartine  says  somewhere,  very  prettily,  that 
there  is  more  of  quick-running  sap  and  floating 
shade  in  a  young  tree,  but  more  of  fire  in  the  heart 
of  a  sturdy  oak  :  —  "  11  y  a  plus  de  s&vefolle  et  d' om 
bre  flottante  dans  les  jeuncs  plants  de  laforet  ;  U  y  a 
plus  defeu  dans  le  vieux  cceur  du  chZne." 

Is  Lamartine  playing  off  his  prettiness  of  expres 
sion,  dressing  up  with  his  poetry,  —  making  a  good 
conscience  against  the  ghost  of  some  accusing  Gra- 
ziella,  —  or  is  there  truth  in  the  matter  ? 

A  man  who  has  seen  sixty  years,  whether  widower 
or  bachelor,  may  well  put  such  sentiment  into  words : 
it  feeds  his  wasted  heart  with  hope  ;  it  renews  the 
exultation  of  youth  by  the  pleasantest  of  equivoca 
tion,  and  the  most  charming  of  self-confidence.  But, 
after  ah1,  is  it  not  true  ?  Is  not  the  heart  like  new 
blossoming  field-plants,  whose  first  flowers  are  half- 
formed,  one-sided  perhaps,  but  by-and-by,  in  ma 
turity  of  season,  putting  out  wholesome,  well- 
formed  blossoms,  that  will  hold  their  petals  long 
and  bravely  ? 

Bulwer,  in  his  story  of  the  Caxtons,  has  counted 
first  heart-flights  mere  fancy  passages,  —  a  dalliance 


SEA- COAL.  51 

with  the  breezes  of  love,  —  which  pass,  and  leave 
healthful  heart-appetite.  Half  the  reading  world 
has  read  the  story  of  Trevanion  and  Pisistratus. 
But  Bulwer  is  —  past ;  his  heart-life  is  used  up  — 
epuis'e.  Such  a  man  can  very  safely  rant  about  the 
cool  judgment  of  after-years. 

Where  does  Shakspeare  put  the  unripe  heart- 
age?  All  of  it  before  the  ambition,  that  alone 
makes  the  hero-soul.  The  Shakspeare  man  "sighs 
like  a  furnace, "  before  he  stretches  his  arm  t6 
achieve  the  "  bauble,  reputation." 

Yet  Shakspeare  has  rneted  a  soul  love,  mature 
and  ripe,  without  any  young  furnace -sighs,  to  Des- 
demona  and  Othello.  Cordelia,  one  of  the  sweetest 
of  his  creations,  loves  without  any  of  the  mawkish 
matter  which  makes  the  whining  love  of  a  Juliet. 
And  Florizel,  in  the  "  Winter's  Tale,"  says  to  Perdita, 
in  the  true  spirit  of  a  most  sound  heart,  — 

"  My  desires 

Run  not  before  mine  honor,  nor  my  lusts 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith." 

How  is  it  with  Hector  and  Andromache  ?  No  Sea- 
coal  blaze,  but  one  that  is  constant,  enduring,  per 
vading  :  a  pair  of  hearts  full  of  esteem  and  best 
love,  —  good,  honest,  and  sound. 

Look  now  at  Adam  and  Eve,  in  God's  presence, 


52  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

with  Milton  for  showman.  Shall  we  quote  by  this 
sparkling  blaze,  a  gem  from  the  "  Paradise  Lost "  ? 
We  will  hum  it  to  ourselves,  —  what  Raphael  sings 
to  Adam,  —  a  classic  song  :  — 

"  Him,  serve  and  fear ! 
Of  other  creatures,  as  Him  pleases  best 
Wherever  placed,  let  Him  dispose  ;  joy  thou 
In  what  he  gives  to  thee,  this  Paradise 
And  thy  fair  Eve  !  " 

And  again  :  — 

"  Love  refines 

The  thoughts  and  heart  enlarges :  hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious  :  is  the  scale 
By  which  to  Heavenly  love  thou  mayst  ascend  !  " 

None  of  the  playing  sparkle  in  this  love,  which 
belongs  to  the  flame  of  my  Sea-coal  fire,  that  is  now 
dancing,  lively  as  a  cricket.  But  on  looking  about 
my  garret-chamber,  I  can  see  nothing  that  resem 
bles  the  archangel  Kaphael,  or  "  thy  fair  Eve." 

There  is  a  degree  of  moisture  about  the  Sea-coal 
flame,  which,  with  the  most  earnest  of  my  musing, 
I  find  it  impossible  to  attach  to  that  idea  of  a  wav 
ing,  sparkling  heart  which  my  fire  suggests.  A 
damp  heart  must  be  a  foul  thing  to  be  sure.  But 
whoever  heard  of  one  ? 


SEA -COAL.  53 

Wordsworth,  somewhere  in  the  "  Excursion," 
says :  — 

"The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket  1 " 

What,  in  the  name  of  Eydal  Mount,  is  a  dry 
heart  ?  A  dusty  one,  I  can  conceive  of :  a  bachelor's 
heart  must  be  somewhat  dusty,  as  he  nears  the  six 
tieth  summer  of  his  pilgrimage ;  and  hung  over  with 
cobwebs,  in  which  sit  such  watchful  gray  old  spi 
ders  as  Avarice  and  Selfishness,  forever  on  the  look 
out  for  such  bottle-green  flies  as  Lust. 

"I  will  never,"  said  I,  griping  at  the  elbows  of  my 
chair,  "  live  a  bachelor  till  sixty  :  never,  so  surely  as 
there  is  hope  in  man,  or  charity  in  woman,  or  faith 
in  both ! " 

And  with  that  thought,  my  heart  leaped  about  in 
playful  coruscations,  even  like  the  flame  of  the  Sea- 
coal  —  rising  and  wrapping  round  old  and  tender 
memories,  and  images  that  were  present  to  me, 
trying  to  cling,  and  yet  no  sooner  fastened  than 
off ;  dancing  again,  riotous  in  its  exultation,  —  a 
succession  of  heart-sparkles,  blazing,  and  going 
out. 

—  And  is  there  not,  mused  I,  a  portion  of  thia 
world  forever  blazing  in  just  such  lively  sparkles, 


54  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

waving  here  and  there  as  the  air-currents  fan 
them? 

Take,  for  instance,  your  heart  of  sentiment  and 
quick  sensibility,  —  a  weak,  warm- working  heart, 
flying  off  in  tangents  of  unhappy  influence,  unguided 
by  prudence,  and  perhaps  virtue.  There  is  a  paper 
by  Mackenzie  in  the  Mirror  for  April,  1780,  which 
sets  this  untoward  sensibility  in  a  strong  light. 

And  the  more  it  is  indulged,  the  more  strong  and 
binding  such  a  habit  of  sensibility  becomes.  Poor 
Mackenzie  himself  must  have  suffered  thus  ;  you 
cannot  read  his  books  without  feeling  it ;  your  eye, 
in  spite  of  you,  runs  over  with  his  sensitive  griefs, 
while  you  are  half  ashamed  of  his  success  at  picture- 
making.  It  is  a  tefrible  inheritance,  and  one  that 
a  strong  man  or  woman  will  study  to  subdue  ;  it  is 
a  vain  Sea-coal  sparkling,  which  will  count  no  good. 
The  world  is  made  of  much  hard,  flinty  substance, 
against  which  your  better  and  holier  thoughts  will 
be  striking  fire :  see  to  it  that  the  sparks  do  not 
burn  you. 

But  what  a  happy  careless  life  belongs  to  this 
Bachelorhood,  in  which  you  may  strike  out  boldly 
right  and  left.  Your  heart  is  not  bound  to  another 
which  may  be  full  of  only  sickly  vapors  of  feeling ; 
nor  is  it  frozen  to  a  cold  man's  heart  under  a  silk 
bodice,  knowing  nothing  of  tenderness  but  tha 


SEA- COAL.  55 

name,  to  prate  of ;  and  nothing  of  soul-confidence, 
but  clumsy  confession.  And  if,  in  your  careless 
outgoings  of  feeling,  you  get  here  only  a  little  lip 
vapidity  in  return,  be  sure  that  you  will  find  else 
where  an  honest  hearted  utterance.  This  last  you 
will  cherish  in  your  inner  soul,  a  nucleus  for  a  new 
group  of  affections  ;  and  the  other  will  pass  with  a 
whiff  of  your  cigar. 

Or  if  your  feelings  are  touched,  struck,  hurt,  who 
is  the  wiser,  or  the  worse,  but  you  only  ?  And  have 
you  not  the  whole  skein  of  your  heart-life  in  your 
own  fingers,  to  wind  or  unwind  in  what  shape  you 
please  ?  Shake  it,  or  twine  it,  or  tangle  it,  by  the 
light  of  your  fire,  as  you  fancy  best.  He  is  a  weak 
man  who  cannot  twist  and  weave  the  threads  of  his 
feeling  —  however  fine,  however  tangled*,  however 
strained,  or  however  strong  —  into  the  great  cable 
of  Purpose,  by  which  he  lies  moored  to  his  life  of 
Action. 

Reading  is  a  great  and  happy  disentangler  of  all 
those  knotted  snarls  —  those  extravagant  vagaries, 
which  belong  to  a  heart  sparkling  with  sensibility  ; 
but  the  reading  must  be  cautiously  directed.  There 
is  old  placid  Burton,  when  your  soul  is  weak  and  its 
digestion  of  life's  humors  is  bad  ;  there  is  Cowper, 
when  your  spirit  runs  into  kindly,  half-sad,  religious 
musing  ;  there  is  Crabbe,  when  you  would  shake  oft 


56  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

vagary,  by  a  little  handling  of  sharp  actualities. 
There  is  Voltaire,  a  homoeopathic  doctor,  whom  you 
can  read  when  you  want  to  make  a  play  of  life,  and 
crack  jokes  at  Nature,  and  be  witty  with  Destiny  ; 
there  is  Rousseau,  when  you  want  to  lose  yourself 
in  a  mental  dream-land,  and  be  beguiled  by  the  har 
mony  of  soul-music  and  soul-culture. 

And  when  you  would  shake  off  this,  and  be  stur 
diest  among  the  battlers  for  hard  world-success,  and 
be  forewarned  of  rocks  against  which  you  must 
surely  smite,  —  read  Bolingbroke  ;  run  over  the  let 
ters  of  Lyttleton  ;  read,  and  think  of  what  you  read, 
in  the  cracking  lines  of  Rochefoucauld.  How  he 
Bums  us  up  in  his  stinging  words  !  how  he  puts  the 
scalpel  between  the  nerves  !  yet  he  never  hurts,  for 
he  is  dissecting  dead  matter. 

If  you  are  in  a  genial,  careless  mood,  who  is  bet 
ter  than  such  extemporizers  of  feeling  and  nature 
—  good-hearted  fellows  —  as  Sterne  and  Fielding  ? 

And  then  again,  there  are  Milton  and  Isaiah,  to 
lift  up  one's  soul  until  it  touches  cloud-land,  and  you 
wander  with  their  guidance,  on  swift  feet,  to  the 
.very  gates  of  heaven.  ' 

But  this  sparkling  sensibility  to  one  struggling 
under  infirmity,  or  with  grief  or  poverty,  is  very 
dreadful.  The  soul  is  too  nicely  and  keenly  hinged 
to  be  wrenched  without  mischief.  How  it  shrinks 


SEA- COAL.  57 

like  a  hurt  child,  from  all  that  is  vulgar,  harsh,  and 
crude !  Alas,  for  such  a  man  !  he  will  be  buffeted 
from  beginning  to  end  ;  his  life  will  be  a  sea  of 
troubles.  The  poor  victim  of  his  own  quick  spirit, 
he  wanders  with  a  great  shield  of  doubt  hung  before 
him,  so  that  none,  not  even  friends,  can  see  the  good 
ness  of  such  kindly  qualities  as  belong  to  him. 
Poverty,  if  it  comes  upon  him,  he  wrestles  with  in 
secret,  with  strong,  frenzied  struggles.  He  wraps 
his  scant  clothes  about  him  to  keep  him  from  the 
cold ;  and  eyes  the  world  as  if  every  creature  in  it 
were  breathing  chill  blasts  at  him  from  every  opened 
mouth.  .  He  threads  the  crowded  ways  of  the  city, 
proud  in  his  griefs,  vain  in  his  weakness,  not  stop 
ping  to  do  good.  Bulwer,  in  the  "New  Timon," 
has  painted,  in  a  pair  of  stinging  Pope-like  lines, 
this  feeling  in  a  woman  :  — 

"What  had  been  pride,  a  kind  of  madness  grown, 
She  hugged  her  wrongs,  her  sorrow  was  her  throne !  " 

Cold  picture !  yet  the  heart  was  sparkh'ng  under 
it,  like  my  Sea-coal  fire,  —  lifting  and  blazing,  and 
lighting  and  falling,  —  but  with  no  object,  and 
only  such  little  heat  as  begins  and  ends  within. 

Those  fine  sensibilities,  ever  active,  are  chasing 
and  observing  all ;  they  catch  a  hue  from  what  the 


53  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

dull  and  callous  pass  by  unnoticed  —  because  un 
known.  They  blunder  at  the  great  variety  of  the 
world's  opinions  ;  they  see  tokens  of  belief  where 
others  see  none.  That  delicate  organization  is  a 
curse  to  a  man  ;  and  yet,  poor  fool,  he  does  not  see 
where  his  cure  lies ;  he  wonders  at  his  griefs,  and 
has  never  reckoned  with  himself  their  source.  He 
studies  others,  without  studying  himself.  He  eats 
the  leaves  that  sicken,  and  never  plucks  up  the  root 
that  will  cure. 

With  a  woman  it  is  worse  :  with  her,  this  delicate 
Busceptibility  is  like  a  frail  flower,  that  quivers  at 
every  rough  blast  of  heaven  ;  her  own  delicacy 
wounds  her  ;  her  highest  charm  is  perverted  to  a 
curse. 

She  listens  with  fear ;  she  reads  with  trembling  ; 
she  looks  with  dread.  Her  sympathies  give  a  tone, 
like  the  harp  of  JEolus,  to  the  slightest  breath. 
Her  sensibility  lights  up,  and  quivers  and  falls,  like 
the  flame  of  a  Sea-coal  fire. 

If  she  loves,  (and  may  not  a  Bachelor  reason  on 
this  daintiest  of  topics,)  her  love  is  a  gushing,  wavy 
flame,  lit  up  with  hope,  that  has  only  a  little  kindling 
matter  to  light  it ;  and  this  soon  burns  out.  Yet  in 
tense  sensibility  will  persuade  her  that  the  flame 
still  scorches.  She  will  mistake  the  annoyance  of 
affection  unrequited  for  the  sting  of  a  passion  that 


SEA- COAL.  59 

she  fancies  still  burns.  She  does  not  look  deep 
enough  to  see  that  the  passion  is  gone,  and  the 
shocked  sensitiveness  emits  only  faint,  yellowish 
sparkles  in  its  place  ;  her  high-wrought  organization 
makes  those  sparks  seem  a  veritable  flame. 

With  her,  judgment,  prudence,  and  discretion  are 
cold,  measured  terms,  which  have  no  meaning,  ex 
cept  as  they  attach  to  the  actions  of  others.  Of  her 
own  acts,  she  never  predicates  them ;  feeling  is 
much  too  high,  to  allow  her  to  submit  to  any  such 
obtrusive  guides  of  conduct.  She  needs  disappoint 
ment  to  teach  her  truth,  —  to  teach  that  all  is  not 
gold  that  glitters,  —  to  teach  that  all  warmth  does 
not  blaze.  But  let  her  beware  how  she  sinks  under 
any  fancied  disappointments  :  she  who  sinks  under 
real  disappointment  lacks  philosophy  ;  but  she  who 
sinks  under  a  fancied  one  lacks  purpose.  Let  her 
flee  as  the  plague  such  brooding  thoughts  as  she 
will  love  to  cherish ;  let  her  spurn  dark  fancies  as 
the  visitants  of  hell ;  let  the  soul  rise  with  the  blaze 
of  new-kindled,  active,  and  world- wide  emotions,  and 
so  brighten  into  steady  and  constant  flame.  Let 
her  abjure  such  poets  as  Cowper,  or  Byron,  or  even 
Wordsworth  ;  and  if  she  must  poetize,  let  her  lay 
her  mind  to  such  manly  verse  as  Pope's,  or  to  such 
sound  and  ringing  organry  as  Comus. 

My  fire  was  getting  dull,  and  I  thrust  in  the  poker : 


60  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

it  started  up  on  the  instant  into  a  hundred  little  an 
gry  tongues  of  flame. 

—  Just  so,  thought  I,  the  over-sensitive  heart, 
once  cruelly  disturbed,  will  fling  out  a  score  of  flam 
ing  passions,  darting  here  and  darting  there,  half 
smoke,  half  flame,  —  love  and  hate,  canker  and 
joy,  —  wild  in  its  madness,  not  knowing  whither  its 
sparks  are  flying.  Once  break  roughly  upon  the 
affections,  or  even  the  fancied  affections  of  such  a 
soul,  and  you  breed  a  tornado  of  maddened  action,  — 
a  whirlwind  of  fire  that  hisses,  and  sends  out  jets 
of  wild,  impulsive  combustion,  that  make  the  by 
standers,  even  those  most  friendly,  stand  aloof  until 
the  storm  is  past. 

But  this  is  not  all  that  the  dashing  flame  of  my 
Sea- coal  suggests. 

How  like  a  flirt !  mused  I  again,  recurring  to 

my  first  thought :  so  lively,  yet  uncertain  ;  so  bright, 
yet  so  flickering  1  Your  true  flirt  plays  with 
sparkles  ;  her  heart,  much  as  there  is  of  it,  spends 
itself  in  sparkles  ;  she  measures  it  to  sparkle,  and 
habit  grows  into  nature,  so  that  anon  it  can  only 
sparkle.  How  carefully  she  cramps  it,  if  the  flames 
show  too  great  a  heat ;  how  dexterously  she  flings 
its  blaze  hero  and  there  ;  how  coyly  she  subdues  it ; 
how  winningly  she  lights  it ! 

All  this  is  the  entire  reverse  of  the  unpremeditated 


SEA- COAL.  6 1 

clartings  of  the  soul  at  which  I  have  been  looking  ; 
sensibility  scorns  heart-curbings  and  heart-teach 
ings  ;  sensibility  inquires  not,  how  much  ?  but  only 
where  ? 

Your  true  flirt  has  a  coarse-grained  soul ;  well 
modulated  and  well  tutored,  but  there  is  no  fineness 
in  it.  All  its  native  fineness  is  made  coarse  by 
coarse  efforts  of  the  will.  True  feeling  is  a  rustic 
vulgarity  the  flirt  does  not  tolerate  ;  she  counts  its 
healthiest  and  most  honest  manifestation  all  senti 
ment.  Yet  she  will  play  you  off  a  pretty  string  of 
sentiment  which  she  has  gathered  from  the  poets  ; 
she  adjusts  it  prettily  as  a  Gobelin  weaver  adjusts 
the  colors  in  his  broidery.  She  shades  it  off  delight 
fully  ;  there  are  no  bold  contrasts,  but  a  most  artis 
tic  mellowing  of  nuances. 

She  smiles  like  a  wizard,  and  jingles  it  with  a 
laugh,  such  as  tolled  the  poor  home-bound  Ulysses 
to  the  Circean  bower.  She  has  a  cast  of  the  head, 
apt  and  artful  as  the  most  dexterous  cast  of  the  best 
trout-killing  rod.  Her  words  sparkle,  and  flow  hur 
riedly,  and  with  the  prettiest  doubleness  of  mean 
ing.  Naturalness  she  copies,  and  she  scorns.  She 
accuses  herself  of  a  single  expression  or  regard, 
which  nature  prompts.  She  prides  herself  on  her 
schooling.  She  measures  her  wit  by  the  triumphs 
of  her  art ;  she  chuckles  over  her  own  falsity  to  her- 


62  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR, 

self.  And  if  by  chance  her  soul  —  such  germ  as  is 
left  of  it  —  betrays  her  into  untoward  confidence, 
she  condemns  herself,  as  if  she  had  committed 
crime. 

She  is  always  gay,  because  she  has  no  depth  of 
feeling  to  be  stirred.  The  brook  that  runs  shallow 
over  hard,  pebbly  bottom  always  rustles.  She  is 
light-hearted,  because  her  heart  floats  in  sparkles, 
like  my  Sea-coal  fire.  She  counts  on  marriage, 
not  as  the  great  absorbent  of  a  heart's-love,  and 
life,  but  as  a  happy,  feasible,  and  orderly  conven 
tionality,  to  be  played  with,  and  kept  at  distance, 
and  finally  to  be  accepted  as  a  cover  for  the  faint 
and  tawdry  sparkles  of  an  old  and  cherished  heart- 
lessness. 

She  will  not  pine  under  any  regrets,  because  she 
has  no  appreciation  of  any  loss  ;  she  will  not  chafe 
at  indifference,  because  it  is  her  art ;  she  will  not  be 
worried  with  jealousies,  because  she  is  ignorant  of 
love.  With  no  conception  of  the  soul  in  its  strength 
and  fulness,  she  sees  no  lack  of  its  demands.  A 
thrill  she  does  not  know  ;  a  passion  she  cannot  im 
agine  ;  joy  is  a  name  ;  grief  is  another  ;  and  Life, 
with  its  crowding  scenes  of  love  and  bitterness,  is  a 
play  upon  the  stage. 

I  think  it  is  Madame  Dudevant  who  says,  in  some 
thing  like  the  same  connection :  —  "  Les  hiboux  ne 


SEA -COAL.  63 

connaissent  pas  le  chemin  par  oil  les  aigles  vont  au 
soleil" 

Poor  Ned !  mused  I,  looking  at  the  play  of 

the  fire,  was  a  victim  and  a  conqueror.  He  was  a 
man  of  a  full,  strong  nature,  —  not  a  little  impul 
sive,  —  with  action  too  full  of  earnestness  for  most  of 
men  to  see  its  drift.  He  had  known  little  of  what 
is  called  the  world  :  he  was  fresh  in  feeling  and  high 
of  hope  ;  he  had  been  encircled  always  by  friends 
who  loved  him,  and  who,  maybe,  flattered  him. 
Scarce  had  he  entered  upon  the  tangled  life  of  the 
city,  before  he  met  with  a  sparkling  face  and  an  airy 
step,  that  stirred  something  in  poor  Ned  that  he  had 
never  felt  before.  With  him,  to  feel  was  to  act.  He 
was  not  one  to  be  despised ;  for  notwithstanding  he 
wore  a  country  air,  and  the  awkwardness  of  a  man 
who  has  yet  the  bienseance  of  social  life  before  him, 
he  had  the  soul,  the  courage,  and  the  talent  of  a 
strong  man.  Little  gifted  in  the  knowledge  of 
face-play,  he  easily  mistook  those  coy  manoeuvres 
of  a  sparkling  heart  for  something  kindred  to  his 
own  true  emotions. 

She  was  proud  of  the  attentions  of  a  man  who 
carried  a  mind  in  his  brain,  and  flattered  poor  Ned 
almost  into  servility.  Ned  had  no  friends  to  counsel 
him  ;  or  if  he  had  them,  his  impulses  would  have 
blinded  him.  Never  was  dodger  more  artful  at  the 


64  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Olympic  Games  than  the  Peggy  of  Ned's  affection. 
He  was  charmed,  beguiled,  entranced. 

When  Ned  spoke  of  love,  she  staved  it  off  with 
the  prettiest  of  sly  looks  that  only  bewildered  him 
the  more.  A  charming  creature  to  be  sure  ;  coy  as 
a  dove. 

So  he  went  on,  poor  fool,  until  one  day  —  he  told 
me  of  it  with  the  blood  mounting  to  his  temples, 
and  his  eye  shooting  flame  —  he  suffered  his  feel 
ings  to  run  out  in  passionate  avowal,  —  entreaty,  — 
everything.  She  gave  a  pleasant,  noisy  laugh,  and 
manifested — such  pretty  surprise  ! 

He  was  looking  for  the  intense  glow  of  passion  ; 
and  lo,  there  was  nothing  but  the  shifting  sparkle 
of  a  Sea-coal  flame. 

I  wrote  him  a  letter  of  condolence,  for  I  was  his 
senior  by  a  year.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  "  diet 
yourself :  you  can  find  greens  at  the  up-town  mar 
ket  ;  eat  a  little  fish  with  your  dinner  :  abstain  from 
heating  drinks ;  don't  put  too  much  butter  to  your 
cauliflower ;  read  one  of  Jeremy  Taylor's  sermons, 
and  translate  all  the  quotations  at  sight ;  run  care 
fully  over  that  exquisite  picture  of  Geo.  Dandin  in 
your  Moliere,  and  my  word  for  it,  in  a  week  you  will 
be  a  sound  man." 

He  was  too  angry  to  reply  ;  but  eighteen  months 
thereafter  I  got  a  thick,  three-sheeted  letter,  with  a 


SEA- COAL.  65 

dove  upon  the  seal,  telling  me  that  he  was  as  happy 
as  a  king.  He  said  he  had  married  a  good-hearted, 
domestic,  loving  wife,  who  was  as  lovely  as  a  June- 
day  ;  and  that  their  baby,  not  three  months  old,  was 
as  bright  as  a  spot  of  June-day  sunshine  on  the 
grass. 

—  What  a  tender,  delicate,  loving  wife,  mused  I, 
such  flashing,  flaming  flirt  must  in  the  end  make  ; 
—  the   prostitute   of   fashion ;   the   bauble  of  fifty 
hearts  idle  as  hers  ;  the  shifting  makepeace  of  a 
stage  scene  ;  the  actress,  now  in  peasant,  and  now 
in  princely   petticoats.      How   it   would   cheer  an 
honest  soul  to  call  her  —  his.     What  a  culmination 
of  his  heart-life  ;  what  a  rich  dream-land  to  be  real 
ized  ! 

— —  Bah  !  and  I  thrust  the  poker  into  the  clotted 
mass  of  fading  coal ;  just  such,  and  so  worthless,  is 
the  used  heart  of  a  city  flirt ;  just  so  the  incessant 
sparkle  of  her  life,  and  her  frittering  passions,  fuse  all 
that  is  sound  and  combustible  into  black,  sooty, 
shapeless  residuum. 

When  I  marry  a  flirt,  I  will  buy  second-hand 
clothes  of  the  Jews. 

—  Still,  mused  I,  as  the  flame  danced  again,  there 
is  a  distinction  between  coquetry  and  flirtation. 

A  coquette  sparkles,  but  it  is  more  the  sparkle  of 
a  harmless  and  pretty  vanity  than  of  calculation.     It 
5 


66  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

is  the  play  of  humors  in  the  blood,  and  not  the  play 
of  purpose  at  the  heart.  It  will  flicker  around  a  true 
soul  like  the  blaze  around  an  omelette  au  rhum,  leav 
ing  the  kernel  -sounder  and  warmer. 

Coquetry,  with  all  its  pranks  and  teasings,  makes 
the  spice  to  your  dinner  —  the  mulled  wine  to  your 
supper.  It  Avill  drive  you  to  desperation,  only  to 
bring  you  back  hotter  to  the  fray.  Who  would  boast 
a  victory  that  cost  no  strategy,  and  no  careful  dispo 
sition  of  the  forces  ?  Who  would  bulletin  such  suc 
cess  as  my  Uncle  Toby's,  in  a  back-garden,  with  only 
the  Corporal  Trim  for  assailant  ?  But  let  a  man  be 
very  sure  that  the  city  is  worth  the  siege  ! 

Coquetry  whets  the  appetite ;  flirtation  depraves 
it.  Coquetry  is  the  thorn  that  guards  the  rose,  — 
easily  trimmed  off  when  once  plucked.  Flirtation  is 
like  the  slime  on  water-plants,  making  them  hard  to 
handle,  and  when  caught,  only  to  be  cherished  in 
slimy  waters. 

And  so,  with  my  eye  clinging  to  the  flickering 
Blaze,  I  see  in  my  Reverie  a  bright  one  dancing  be 
fore  me  with  sparkling,  coquettish  smile,  teasing  me 
with  the  prettiest  graces  in  the  world  ;  and  I  grow 
maddened  between  hope  and  fear ;  and  still  watch 
with  my  whole  soul  in  my  eyes  ;  and  see  her  features 
by-and-by  relax  to  pity,  as  a  gleam  of  sensibility 
comes  stealing  over  her  spirit ;  and  then  to  a  kindly, 


SEA- COAL.  67 

feeling  regard  :  presently  she  approaches,  —  a  coy 
and  doubtful  approach,  — and  throws  back  the  ring 
lets  that  lie  over  her  cheek,  and  lays  her  hand  —  a 
little  bit  of  white  hand  —  timidly  upon  my  strong 
fingers,  and  turns  her  head  daintily  to  one  side,  and 
looks  up  in  my  eyes  as  they  rest  on  the  playing  Blaze ; 
and  my  fingers  close  fast  and  passionately  over  that 
little  hand,  like  a  swift  night-cloud  shrouding  the 
pale  tips  of  Dian  ;  and  my  eyes  draw  nearer  and 
nearer  to  those  blue,  laughing,  pitying,  teasing  eyes, 
and  my  arm  clasps  round  that  shadowy  form,  —  and 
my  lips  feel  a  warm  breath  —  growing  warmer  and 

warmer 

Just  here  the  maid  comes  in,  and  throws  upon  the 
fire  a  panful  of  Anthracite,  and  my  sparkling  Sea- 
coal  Reverie  is  ended. 


I 


II. 

Anthracite. 

T  does  not  burn  freely,  so  I  put  on  the  blower. 
Quaint  and  good-natured  Xavier  de  Maistre  * 
would  have  made,  I  dare  say,  a  pretty  epilogue  about 
a  sheet-iron  blower  ;  but  I  cannot. 

I  try  to  bring  back  the  image  that  belonged  to  the 
lingering  bituminous  flame,  but  with  my  eyes  on  that 
dark  blower  —  how  can  I  ? 

It  is  the  black  curtain  of  destiny  which  drops  down 
before  our  brightest  dreams.  How  often  the  phan 
toms  of  joy  regale  us,  and  dance  before  us,  golden- 
winged,  angel-faced,  heart-warming,  and  make  an 
Elysium  in  which  the  dreaming  soul  bathes,  and 
feels  translated  to  another  existence  ;  and  then  — • 

*  Voyage  autour  de  Ma  Chambre. 


ANTHRACITE.  69 

sudden  as  night,  or  a  cloud  —  a  word,  a  step,  a 
thought,  a  memory  will  chase  them  away,  like  scared 
deer  vanishing  over  a  gray  horizon  of  moor-land. 

I  know  not  justly,  if  it  be  a  weakness  or  a  sin  to 
create  these  phantoms  that  we  love,  and  to  group 
them  into  a  paradise  —  soul-created.  But  if  it  is  a 
sin,  it  is  a  sweet  and  enchanting  sin  ;  and  if  it  is  a 
weakness,  it  is  a  strong  and  stirring  weakness.  If 
this  heart  is  sick  of  the  falsities  that  meet  it  at  every 
hand,  and  is  eager  to  spend  that  power  which  nature 
has  ribbed  it  with  on  some  object  worthy  of  its  ful 
ness  and  depth,  shall  it  not  feel  a  rich  relief,  —  nay 
more,  an  exercise  in  keeping  with  its  end,  if  it  flow 
out,  strong  as  a  tempest,  wilcl  as  a  rushing  river, 
upon  those  ideal  creations  which  imagination  begets, 
and  which  are  tempered  by  our  best  sense  of  beauty, 
purity,  and  grace  ? 

Useless,  do  you  say  ?  Aye,  it  is  as  useless  as 

the  pleasure  of  looking  hour  upon  hour  over  bright 
landscapes  ;  it  is  as  useless  as  the  rapt  enjoyment  of 
listening,  with  heart  full  and  eyes  brimming,  to  such 
music  as  the  Miserere  at  Home  ;  it  is  as  useless  as 
the  ecstasy  of  kindling  your  soul  into  fervor  and  love 
and  madness,  over  pages  that  reek  with  genius. 

There  are  indeed  base-moulded  souls  who  know 
nothing  of  this  :  they  laugh  ;  they  sneer ;  they  even 
affect  to  pity.  Just  so  the  Huns  under  the  avenging 


70  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Attila,  who  had  been  used  to  foul  cookery  and  steaks 
stewed  under  their  saddles,  laughed  brutally  at  the 
spiced  banquets  of  an  Apicius. 

No,  this  phantom-making  is  no  sin  ;  or  if  it 

be,  it  is  sinning  with  a  soul  so  full,  so  earnest,  that 
it  can  cry  to  Heaven  cheerily,  and  sure  of  a  gracious 
hearing,  — peccavi  —  miser icorde  ! 

But  my  fire  is  in  a  glow,  a  pleasant  glow,  throw 
ing  a  tranquil,  steady  light  to  the  farthest  corner  of 
my  garret.  How  unlike  it  is  to  the  flashing  play  of 
the  Sea-coal ;  —  unlike  as  an  unsteady,  uncertain- 
working  heart  to  the  true  and  earnest  constancy,  of 
one  cheerful  and  right. 

After  all,  thought  I,  give  me  such  a  heart ;  not 
bent  on  vanities,  not  blazing  too  sharp  with  sensi 
bility,  not  throwing  out  coquettish  jets  of  flame,  not 
wavering,  and  meaningless  with  pretended  warmth, 
but  open,  glowing,  and  strong.  Its  dark  shades  and 
angles  it  may  have  ;  for  what  is  a  soul  worth  that 
does  not  take  a  slaty  tinge  from  those  griefs  that 
chill  the  blood  ?  Yet  still  the  fire  is  gleaming  ;  you 
see  it  in  the  crevices  ;  and  anon  it  will  give  radiance 
to  the  whole  mass. 

It  hurts  the  eyes,  this  fire  ;  and  I  draw  up  a 

screen  painted  over  with  rough  but  graceful  figures. 

The  true  heart  wears  always  the  veil  of  modesty, 
(not  of  prudery,  which  is  a  dingy,  iron,  repulsive 


ANTHRACITE.  71 

screen.)  It  will  not  allow  itself  to  be  looked  on  too 
near,  —  it  might  scorch  ;  but  through  the  veil  you 
feel  the  warmth,  and  through  the  pretty  figures  that 
modesty  will  robe  itself  in,  you  can  see  all  the  while 
the  golden  outlines,  and  by  that  token  you  know 
that  it  is  glowing  and  burning  with  a  pure  and 
steady  flame. 

With  such  a  heart  the  mind  fuses  naturally,  —  a 
holy  and  heated  fusion  ;  they  work  together  like 
twins-born.  With  such  a  heart,  as  Raphael  says  to 
Adam, 

"  Love  hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious." 

But  let  me  distinguish  this  heart  from  your  clay- 
cold,  lukewarm,  half-hearted  soul  ;  —  considerate, 
because  ignorant ;  judicious,  because  possessed  of 
no  latent  fires  that  need  a  curb  ;  prudish,  because 
with  no  warm  blood  to  tempt.  This  sort  of  soul 
may  pass  scatheless  through  the  fiery  furnace  of 
life  ;  strong  only  in  its  weakness  ;  pure,  because  of 
its  failings  ;  and  good  only  by  negation.  It  may 
triumph  over  love,  and  sin,  and  death  ;  but  it  will  be 
a  triumph  of  the  beast,  which  has  neither  passions 
to  subdue,  nor  energy  to  attack,  nor  hope  to  quench. 

Let  us  come  back  to  the  steady  and  earnest  heart, 
glowing  like  my  Anthracite  coaL 


72  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

I  fancy  I  see  such  a  one  now  ;  —  the  eye  is  deep, 
and  reaches  back  to  the  spirit ;  it  is  not  the  trading 
eye,  weighing  your  purse ;  it  is  not  the  worldly 
eye,  weighing  position  ;  it  is  not  the  beastly  eye, 
weighing  your  appearance  ;  it  is  the  heart's  eye, 
weighing  your  soul. 

It  is  full  of  tender,  and  earnest  feeling.  It  is  an 
eye  which,  looked  on  once,  you  long  to  look  on 
again  ;  it  is  an  eye  which  will  haunt  your  dreams, — 
an  eye  which  will  give  a  color,  in  spite  of  you,  to  all 
your  Beveries.  It  is  an  eye  which  lies  before  you 
in  your  future,  like  a  star  in  the  mariner's  heaven  ; 
by  it,  unconsciously,  and  from  force  of  deep  soul- 
habit,  you  take  all  your  observations.  It  is  meek 
and  quiet ;  but  it  is  full  as  a  spring  that  gushes  in 
flood  ;  an  Aphrodite  and  a  Mercury  —  a  Vaucluse 
and  a  Clitumnus. 

The  face  is  an  angel  face  :  no  matter  for  curious 
lines  of  beauty  ;  no  matter  for  popular  talk  of  pretti- 
ness  ;  no  matter  for  its  angles  or  its  proportions  ; 
no  matter  for  its  color  or  its  form,  —  the  soul  is 
there,  illuminating  every  feature,  burnishing  every 
point,  hallowing  every  surface.  It  tells  of  honesty, 
sincerity,  aad  worth  ;  it  tells  of  truth  and  virtue  ; — 
and  you  clasp  the  image  to  your  heart,  as  the  re 
ceived  ideal  of  your  fondest  dreams. 

The  figure  may  be  this  or  that ;  it  may  be  tall  or 


ANTHRACITE.  73 

short ;  it  matters  nothing,  —  the  heart  is  there. 
The  talk  may  be  soft  or  low,  serious  or  piquant,  —  a 
free  and  honest  soul  is  warming  and  softening  it  all. 
As  you  speak,  it  speaks  back  again  ;  as  you  think,  it 
thinks  again,  (not  in  conjunction,  but  in  the  same 
sign  of  the  Zodiac  ;)  as  you  love,  it  loves  in  return. 

It  is  the  heart  for  a  sister,  and  happy  is  the 

man  who  can  claim  such.  The  warmth  that  lies  in 
it  is  not  only  generous,  but  religious,  genial,  devo 
tional,  tender,  self-sacrificing,  and  looking  heaven 
ward. 

A  man  ^without  some  sort  of  religion  is  at  best  a 
poor  reprobate,  the  foot-ball  of  destiny,  with  no  tie 
linking  him  to  infinity  and  the  wondrous  eternity 
that  is  begun  with  him  ;  but  a  woman  without  it  is 
even  worse,  —  a  flame  without  heat,  a  rainbow  with 
out  color^  a  flower  without  perfume.. 

A  man  may  in  some  sort  tie  his  frail  hopes  and 
honor,  with  weak,  shifting  ground-tackle  to  busi 
ness,  or  to  the  world  ;  but  a  woman  without  that 
anchor  which  they  call  Faith,  is  adrift  and  a-wreck. 
A  man  may  clumsily  contrive  a  kind  of  moral  re 
sponsibility  out  of  his  relations  to  mankind ;  but  a 
woman  in  her  comparatively  isolated  sphere,  where 
affection  and  not  purpose  is  the  controlling  motive, 
can  find  no  basis  for  any  system  of  right  action  but 
that  of  spiritual  faith.  A  man  may  craze  his 


74  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

thought  and  his  brain  to  trustfulness  in  such  poor 
harborage  as  Fame  and  Reputation  may  stretch 
before  him  ;  but  a  woman  —  where  can  she  put  her 
hope  in  storms,  if  not  in  Heaven  ? 

And  that  sweet  trustfulness,  that  abiding  love, 
that  enduring  hope,  mellowing  every  page  and  scene 
of  life,  lighting  them  with  pleasantest  radiance,  when 
the  world-storms  break  like  an  army  with  smoking 
cannon,  —  what  can  bestow  it  all  but  a  holy  soul-tie 
to  what  is  above  the  storms,  and  to  what  is  stronger 
than  an  army  with  cannon  ?  Who  that  has  enjoyed 
the  counsel  and  the  love  of  a  Christian  mother,  but 
will  echo  the  thought  with  energy,  and  hallow  it 
with  a  tear  ?  —  et  moi,je  pleurs  ! 

My  fire  is  now  a  mass  of  red-hot  coal.  The  whole 
atmosphere  of  my  room  is  warm.  The  heart  that 
with  its  glow  can  light  up  and  warm  a  garret  with 
loose  casements  and  shattered  roof,  is  capable  of  the 
best  love,  —  domestic  love.  I  draw  farther  off,  and 
the  images  upon  the  screen  change.  The  warmth, 
the  hour,  the  quiet,  create  a  home  feeling  ;  and  that 
feeling,  quick  as  lightning,  has  stolen  from  the 
world  of  fancy  (a  Promethean  theft)  a  home  object, 
about  which  my  musings  go  on  to  drape  themselves 
in  luxurious  Reverie. 

There  she  sits,  by  the  corner  of  the  fire,  in  a 

neat  home  dress  of  sober,  yet  most  adorning  color 


ANTHRACITE.  75 

A  little  bit  of  lace  ruffle  is  gathered  about  the  neck 
by  a  blue  ribbon ;  and  the  ends  of  the  ribbon  are 
crossed  under  the  dimpling  chin,  and  are  fastened 
neatly  by  a  simple,  unpretending  brooch,  —  your 
gift.  The  arm,  a  pretty  taper  arm,  lies  over  the 
carved  elbow  of  .the  oaken  chair;  the  hand,  white 
and  delicate,  sustains  a  little  home  volume  that 
hangs  from  her  fingers.  The  forefinger  is  between 
the  leaves,  and  the  others  lie  in  relief  upon  the  dark 
embossed  cover.  She  repeats  in  a  silvery  voice,  a 
line  that  has  attracted  her  fancy ;  and  you  listen,  — 
or,  at  any  rate,  you  seem  to  listen,  —  with  your  eyes 
now  on  the  lips,  now  on  the  forehead,  and  now  on 
the  finger,  where  glitters  like  a  star  the  marriage- 
ring  —  little  gold  band,  at  which  she  does  not  chafe 
—  that  tells  you  —  she  is  yours ! 

Weak  testimonial,  if  that  were  all  that  told 

it.  The  eye,  the  voice,  the  look,  the  heart,  tells  you 
stronger  and  better,  that  she  is  yours.  And  a  feel 
ing  within,  —  where  it  lies  you  know  not,  and 
whence  it  comes  you  know  not,  but  sweeping  over 
heart  and  brain  like  a  fire-flood,  —  tells  you  too, 
that  you  are  hers.  Irremediably  bound  as  Hortensio 
in  the  play  :  — 

"  I  am  subject  to  another's  will,  and  can 
Nor  speak,  nor  do,  without  permission  from  her  1  " 


76  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

The  fire  is  warm  as  ever :  what  length  of  heat  in 
this  hard  burning  Anthracite !  It  has  scarce  sunk 
yet  to  the  second  bar  of  the  grate,  though  the  clock 
upon  the  church-tower  has  tolled  eleven. 

—  Aye,  mused  I,  gayly,  such  a  heart  does  not 
grow  faint,  it  does  not  spend  itself  in  idle  puffs  of 
blaze,  it  does  not  become  chilly  with  the  passing 
years ;  but  it  gains  and  grows  in  strength  and  heat, 
until  the  fire  of  life  is  covered  over  with  the  ashes  of 
death.  Strong  or  hot  as  it  may  be  at  the  first,  it 
loses  nothing.  It  may  not,  indeed,  as  time  advances, 
throw  out,  like  the  Coal-fire,  when  new-lit,  jets  of 
blue  sparkling  flame ;  it  may  not  continue  to  bub 
ble,  and  gush  like  a  fountain  at  its  source,  but  it  will 
become  a  strong  river  of  flowing  charities. 

Clitumuus  breaks  from  under  the  Tuscan  moun 
tains,  almost  a  flood.  On  a  glorious  spring  day  I 
leaned  down  and  tasted  the  water,  as  it  boiled  from 
its  sources.  The  little  temple  of  white  marble,  the 
mountain  sides  gray  with  olive  orchards,  the  white 
streak  of  road,  the  tall  poplars  of  the  river  margin 
were  glistening  in  the  bright  Italian  sunlight  around 
me.  Later,  I  saw  it  when  it  had  become  a  river,  — 
still  clear  and  strong,  flowing  serenely  between  its 
prairie  banks,  on  which  the  white  cattle  of  the  valley 
browsed ;  and  still  farther  down,  I  welcomed  it, 
where  it  joins  the  Arno,  —  flowing  slowly  under 


ANTHRACITE.  77 

•wooded  shores,  skirting  the  fair  Florence,  and  the 
bounteous  fields  of  the  bright  Cascino,  —  gathering 
strength  and  volume,  till  between  Pisa  and  Leg 
horn,  in  sight  of  the  wondrous  Leaning  Tower,  and 
the  ship-masts  of  the  Tuscan  port,  it  gave  its  waters 
to  the  sea. 

The  recollection  blended  sweetly  now  with  my 
musings  over  the  garret-grate,  and  offered  a  flowing 
image,  to  bear  along  upon  its  bosom  the  affections 
that  were  grouping  in  my  Reverie. 

It  is  a  strange  force  of  the  mind  and  of  the  fancy 
that  can  set  the  objects  which  are  closest  to  the 
heart  far  down  the  lapse  of  time.  Even  now,  as  the 
fire  fades  slightly,  and  sinks  slowly  toward  the  bar, 
which  is  the  dial  of  my  hours,  I  seem  to  see  that 
image  of  love  which  has  played  about  the  fire-glow 
of  my  grate,  years  hence.  It  still  covers  the  same 
warm,  trustful,  religious  heart.  Trials  have  tried  it ; 
afflictions  have  weighed  upon  it ;  danger  has  scared 
it,  and  death  is  coming  near  to  subdue  it ;  but  still 
it  is  the  same. 

The  fingers  are  thinner ;  the  face  has  lines  of  care 
and  sorrow,  crossing  each  other  in  a  web-work  that 
makes  the  golden  tissue  of  humanity.  But  the  heart 
is  fond  and  steady  ;  it  is  the  same  true  heart,  the 
same  self-sacrificing  heart,  warming,  like  a  fire,  all 
around  it.  Affliction  has  tempered  joy,  and  joy 


78  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

adorned  affliction.  Life  and  all  its  troubles  have 
become  distilled  into  an  holy  incense,  rising  ever 
from  your  fireside  —  an  offering  to  your  household 
gods. 

Your  dreams  of  reputation,  your  swift  determina 
tion,  your  impulsive  pride,  your  deep-uttered  vows 
to  win  a  name,  have  all  sobered  into  affection,  —  have 
all  blended  into  that  glow  of  feeling  which  finds  its 
centre  and  hope  and  joy  in  HOME.  From  my  soul  I 
pity  him  whose  soul  does  not  leap  at  the  mere  utter 
ance  of  that  name. 

A  home  !  —  it  is  the  bright,  blessed,  adorable 
phantom  which  sits  highest  on  the  sunny  horizon 
that  girdeth  Life !  When  shall  it  be  reached  ? 
When  shall  it  cease  to  be  a  glittering  day-dream, 
and  become  fully  and  fairly  yours  ? 

It  is  not  the  house,  —  though  that  may  have  its 
charms  ;  nor  the  fields  carefully  tilled,  and  streaked 
with  your  own  footpaths  ;  nor  the  trees,  —  though 
their  shadow  be  to  you  like  that  of  a  great  rock  in  a 
weary  land ;  nor  yet  is  it  the  fireside,  with  its  sweet 
blaze-play ;  nor  the  pictures  which  tell  of  loved 
ones ;  nor  the  cherished  books  ;  but  more  far  than  all 
these,  —  it  is  the  PKESENCE.  The  Lares  of  your  wor 
ship  are  there  ;  the  altar  of  your  confidence  is  there  ; 
the  end  of  your  worldly  faith  is  there  ;  and  adorning 
it  all,  and  sending  your  blood  in  passionate  flow,  is 


ANTHRACITE.  79 

the  ecstasy  oM.li  ft  ronvintion  that,  there  at  least  you 
are  beloved  ;  that  there  you  are  understood  ;  that 
there  your  errors  will  meet  ever  with  gentlest  for 
giveness  ;  that  there  your  troubles  will  be  smiled 


away  ptSaTjItere^  you  mayjunburdeix  your  soul,  fear 
less  of  harsh,  mi  sympathizing  p.arft  ;  and  that  there 
you  may  be  entirely  and  joyfully  —  yourself. 

There  may  be  those  of  coarse  mould  —  and  I  have 
seen  such,  even  in  the  disguise  of  women  —  who  will 
reckon  these  feelings  puling  sentiment.  God  pity 
them  !  as  they  have  need  of  pity. 

-  That  image  by  the  fireside,  calm,  loving,  joy 
ful,  is  there  still  ;  it  goes  not,  however  my  spirit 
tosses,  because  my  wish  and  every  will  keep  it  there 
unerring. 

The  fire  shows  through  the  screen,  yellow  and 
warm  as  a  harvest  sun.  It  is  in  its  best  age,  and  that 
age  is  ripeness. 

A  ripe  heart  !  now  I  know  what  Wordsworth  meant 
when  he  said,  — 

'  '  The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket  !  " 

The  town-clock  is  striking  midnight.  The  cold  of 
the  night  wind  is  urging  its  way  in  at  the  door  and 
window  crevice  ;  the  fire  has  sunk  almost  to  the  third 


8o  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

bar  of  the  grate.  Still  my  dream  tires  not,  but  wraps 
fondly  round  that  image,  now  in  the  far-off,  chilling 
mists  of  age,  growing  sainted.  Love  has  blended 
into  reverence ;  passion  has  subsided  into  joyous 
content. 

And  what  if  age  comes  ?  said  I,  in  a  new  flush 

of  excitation,  —  what  else  proves  the  wine  ?  What 
else  gives  inner  strength,  and  knowledge,  and  a 
steady  pilot-hand,  to  steer  your  boat  out  boldly  upon 
that  shoreless  sea  where  the  river  of  life  is  running? 
Let  the  white  ashes  gather ;  let  the  silver  hair  lie 
where  lay  the  auburn ;  let  the  eye  gleam  farther  back, 
and  dimmer  ;  it  is  but  retreating  toward  the  pure 
sky-depths,  an  usher  to  the  land  where  you  will  fol 
low  after. 

It  is  quite  cold,  and  I  take  away  the  screen  alto 
gether  ;  there  is  a  little  glow  yet,  but  presently  the 
coal  slips  down  below  the  third  bar,  with  a  rumbling 
sound,  like  that  of  coarse  gravel  falling  into  a  new- 
dug  grave. 

She  is  gone  ! 

Well,  the  heart  has  burned  fairly,  evenly,  gener 
ously  while  there  was  mortality  to  kindle  it ;  eternity 
will  surely  kindle  it  better. 

Tears  indeed  !  but  they  are  tears  of  thanks 
giving,  of  resignation,  and  of  hope. 

And  the  eyes  —  full  of  those  tears  which  minister- 


ANTHRACITE.  8 1 

ing  angels  bestow  —  climb  with  quick  vision  upon 
the  angelic  ladder,  and  open  upon  the  futurity  where 
she  has  entered,  and  upon  the  country  which  she 
enjoys. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  sounds  of  life  are  dead. 

You  are  in  the  death-chamber  of  life  ;  but  you  are 
also  in  the  death-chamber  of  care.  The  world  seems 
sliding  backward  ;  and  hope  and  you  are  sliding  for 
ward.  The  clouds,  the  agonies,  the  vain  expectan 
cies,  the  braggart  noise,  the  fears,  now  vanish  behind 
the  curtain  of  the  Past,  and  of  the  Night.  They  roll 
from  your  soul  like  a  load. 

In  the  dimness  of  what  seems  the  ending  Present, 
you  reach  out  tremulous  hands  toward  that  bound 
less  Future,  where  God's  eye  lifts  over  the  horizon 
like  sunrise  on  the  ocean.  Do  you  recognize  it  as 
an  earnest  of  something  better?  Aye,  if  the  heart 
has  been  pure  and  steady,  —  burning  like  my  fire, — 
it  has  learned  it  without  seeming  to  learn.  Faith 
has  grown  upon  it  as  the  blossom  grows  upon  the 
bud,  or  the  flower  upon  the  slow-lifting  stalk. 

Cares  cannot  come  into  the  dream-land  where  I 
live.  They  sink  with  the  dying  street  noise,  and 
vanish  with  the  embers  of  my  fire.  Even  Ambition, 
with  its  hot  and  shifting  flame,  is  all  gone  out.  The 
heart  in  the  dimness  of  the  fading  fire-glow  is  all  it 
self.  The  memory  of  what  good  things  have  come 
6 


82  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

over  it  in  the  troubled  youth  life  bear  it  up,  and 
hope  and  faith  bear  it  on.  There  is  no  extravagant 
pulse-flow  ;  there  is  no  mad  fever  of  the  brain  ;  but 
only  the  soul,  forgetting,  for  once,  all  save  its  desti 
nies  and  its  capacities  for  good.  And  it  mounts 
:higher  and  higher  on  these  wings  of  thought ;  and 
hope  burns  stronger  and  stronger  out  of  the  ashes 
of  decaying  life,  until  the  sharp  edge  of  the  grave 
seems  but  a  foot-scraper  at  the  wicket  of  Elysium. 

But  what  is  paper ;  and  what  are  words  ?  Vain 
things !  The  soul  leaves  them  behind  ;  the  pen  stag 
gers  like  a  starveling  cripple,  and  your  heart  is  leav 
ing  it  a  whole  length  of  the  life-course  behind.  The 
soul's  mortal  longings,  its  poor  baffled  hopes,  are 
dim  now  in  the  light  of  those  infinite  longings  which 
spread  over  it,  soft  and  holy  as  day-dawn.  Eternity 
has  stretched  a  corner  of  its  mantle  toward  you,  and 
the  breath  of  its  waving  fringe  is  like  a  gale  of  Araby. 

A  little  rumbling,  and  a  last  plunge  of  the  cinders 
within  my  grate  startled  me,  and  dragged  back  my 
fancy  from  my  flower  chase,  beyond  the  Phlegethon, 
to  the  white  ashes  that  were  now  thick  all  over  the 
darkened  Coals. 

And  this,  mused  I,  is  only  a  Bachelor-dream 

about  a  pure  and  loving  heart.  And  to-morrow 
comes  cankerous  life  again  :  is  it  wished  for  ?  or,  if 
not  wished  for,  is  the  not  wishing  wicked  ? 


ANTHRACITE.  83 

Will  dreams  satisfy,  reach  high  as  they  can  ?  Are 
we  not,  after  all,  poor,  grovelling  mortals,  tied  to 
earth  and  to  each  other  ?  Are  there  not  sympathies, 
and  hopes,  and  affections  which  can  only  find  their 
issue  and  blessing  in  fellow  absorption  ?  Does  not 
the  heart,  steady  and  pure  as  it  may  be,  and  mount 
ing  on  soul-flights  often  as  it  dare,  want  a  human 
sympathy  perfectly  indulged  to  make  it  healthful  ? 
Is  there  not  a  fount  of  love  for  this  world,  as  there  is 
a  fount  of  love  for  the  other  ?  Is  there  not  a  certain 
store  of  tenderness  cooped  in  this  heart,  which  must 
and  will  be  lavished  before  the  end  comes  ?  Does  it 
not  plead  with  the  judgment,  and  make  issue  with 
prudence,  year  after  year  ?  Does  it  not  dog  your 
steps  all  through  your  social  pilgrimage,  setting  up 
its  claims  in  forma  fresh  and  odorous  as  new-blown 
heath-bells,  saying  —  Come  away  from  the  heartless, 
the  factitious,  the  vain,  and  measure  your  heart,  not 
by  its  constraints,  but  by  its  fulness  and  by  its  depth  ? 
Let  it  run  and  be  joyous  ! 

Is  there  no  demon  that  comes  to  your  harsh  night- 
dreams,  like  a  taunting  fiend,  whispering,  —  Be  satis 
fied  ;  keep  your  heart  from  running  over ;  bridle 
those  affections  ;  there  is  nothing  worth  loving  ? 

Does  not  some  sweet  being  hover  over  your  spirit 
of  Keverie  like  a  beckoning  angel,  crowned  with 
halo,  saying,  —  Hope  on,  hope  ever  ;  the  heart  and  I 


84  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

are  kindred  ;  our  mission  will  be  fulfilled ;  nature 
shall  accomplish  its  purpose  ;  the  soul  shall  have  its 
paradise  ? 

• 1  threw  myself  upon  my  bed  ;  and  as  my 

thoughts  ran  over  the  definite,  sharp  business  of  the 
morrow,  my  Reverie,  and  its  glowing  images  that 
made  my  heart  bound,  swept  away  like  those  fleecy 
rain-clouds  of  August,  on  which  the  sun  paints  rain 
bows,  driven  southward  by  a  cool,  rising  wind  from 
the  north. 

1  wonder,  thought  I,  as  I  dropped  asleep,  if 

a  married  man  with  his  sentiment  made  actual,  is, 
after  all,  as  happy  as  we  poor  fellows  in  our  dreams! 


THIRD  REVERIE. 


4  CIGAR  THREE  TIMES  LIGHTED. 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR. 


T  DO  not  believe  that  there  was  ever  an  Aunt 
Tabithy  who  could  abide  cigars.  My  Aunt 
Tabithy  hated  them  with  a  peculiar  hatred.  She 
was  not  only  insensible  to  the  rich  flavor  01  a  fresh, 
rolling  volume  of  smoke,  but  she  could  not  so  much 
as  tolerate  the  sight  of  the  rich  russet  color  of  an 
Havana-labelled  box.  It  put  her  out  of  all  conceit 
with  Guava  jelly,  to  find  it  advertised  in  the  same 
tongue,  and  with  the  same  Cuban  coarseness  of 
design. 

She  could  see  no  good  in  a  cigar. 

"  But  by  your  leave,  my  aunt,"  said  I  to  her,  the 
other  morning,  "  there  is  very  much  that  is  good  in 
a  cigar." 

My  aunt,  who  was  sweeping,  tossed  her  head,  and 
with  it  her  curls  —  done  up  in  paper. 


88  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

"It  is  a  very  excellent  matter,"  continued  I,  puff 
ing. 

"It  is  dirty,"  said  my  aunt. 

"  It  is  clean  and  sweet,"  said  I ;  "  and  a  most 
pleasant  soother  of  disturbed  feelings  ;  and  a  capi 
tal  companion  ;  and  a  comforter  — "  and  I  stopped 
to  puff. 

"  You  know  it  is  a  filthy  abomination,"  said  my 
aunt ;  "  and  you  ought  to  be  — "  and  she  stopped 
to  put  up  one  of  her  curls,  which,  with  the  energy 
of  her  gesticulation,  had  fallen  out  of  place. 

"  It  suggests  quiet  thoughts,"  continued  I ;  "  and 
makes  a  man  meditative  ;  and  gives  a  current  to  his 
habits  of  contemplation,  —  as  I  can  show  you,"  said 
I,  warming  with  the  theme. 

My  aunt,  still  fingering  her  papers,  —  with  the 
pin  in  her  mouth,  —  gave  a  most  incredulous  shrug. 

"  Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I,  and  gave  two  or  three 
violent,  consecutive  puffs,  —  "  Aunt  Tabithy,  I  can 
make  up  such  a  series  of  reflections  out  of  my 
cigar,  as  would  do  your  heart  good  to  listen  to !  " 

"About  what,  pray?"  said  my  aunt,  contempt 
uously. 

"About  Love,"  said  I,  "which  is  easy  enough 
lighted,  but  wants  constancy  to  keep  it  in  a  glow. 
Or  about  Matrimony,  which  has  a  great  deal  of  fire 
in  the  beginning,  but  it  is  a  fire  that  consumes  all 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR.  89 

that  feeds  the  blaze.  Or  about  Life,"  continued  I, 
earnestly,  "which  at  the  first  is  fresh  and  odorous, 
but  ends  shortly  in  a  withered  cinder,  that  is  fit  only 
for  the  ground." 

My  aunt,  who  was  forty  and  unmarried,  finished 
her  curl  with  a  flip  of  the  fingers,  resumed  her  hold 
of  the  broom,  and  leaned  her  chin  upon  one  end  of 
it,  with  an  expression  of  some  wonder,  some  curi 
osity,  and  a  great  deal  of  expectation. 

I  could  have  wished  my  aunt  had  been  a  little  less 
curious,  or  that  I  had  been  a  little  less  communica 
tive  ;  for  though  it  was  all  honestly  said  on  my  part, 
yet  my  contemplations  bore  that  vague,  shadowy, 
and  delicious  sweetness,  which  it  seemed  impossible 
to  put  into  words,  —  least  of  all,  at  the  bidding  of 
an  old  lady  leaning  on  a  broom-handle. 

"Give  me  time,  Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I,  "a  good 
dinner,  and  after  it  a  good  cigar,  and  I  will  serve 
you  such  a  sunshiny  sheet  of  Reverie,  all  twisted 
out  of  the  smoke,  as  will  make  your  kind  old  heart 
ache ! " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  in  utter  contempt,  either  of  my 
mention  of  the  dinner,  or  of  the  smoke,  or  of  the  old 
heart,  commenced  sweeping  furiously. 

"If  I  do  not,"  continued  I,  anxious  to  appease 
her,  —  "if  I  do  not,  Aunt  Tabithy,  it  shall  be  my 
last  cigar  ;  (Aunt  Tabithy  stopped  sweeping  ;)  and 


90  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

all  my  tobacco  money  (Aunt  Tabithy  drew  near  me) 
shall  go  to  buy  ribbons  for  my  most  respectable  and 
worthy  Aunt  Tabithy ;  and  a  kinder  person  could 
not  have  them  ;  or  one,"  continued  I,  with  a  gener 
ous  puff,  "whom  they  would  more  adorn." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  gave  me  a  half-playful,  half- 
thankful  nudge. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  our  bargain  was  struck  ; 
my  part  of  it  is  already  stated.  On  her  part,  Aunt 
Tabithy  was  to  allow  me,  in  case  of  my  success,  an 
evening  cigar  unmolested,  upon  the  front  porch, 
underneath  her  favorite  rose-tree.  It  was  concluded, 
I  say,  as  I  sat ;  the  smoke  of  my  cigar  rising  grace 
fully  around  my  Aunt  Tabithy's  curls ;  our  right 
hands  joined  ;  my  left  was  holding  my  cigar,  while 
in  hers  was  tightly  grasped  —  her  broomstick. 

And  this  Reverie,  to  make  the  matter  short,  is 
what  came  of  the  contract. 


Lighted  with  a  Coal. 

I  TAKE  up  a  coal  with  the  tongs,  and  setting 
the  end  of  my  cigar  against  it,  puff —  and  puff 
again,  but  there  is  no  smoke.  There  is  very  little 
hope  of  lighting  from  a  dead  coal ;  no  more  hope, 
thought  I,  than  of  kindling  one's  heart  into  flame 
by  contact  with  a  dead  heart. 

To  kindle,  there  must  be  warmth  and  life  ;  and  I 
sat  for  a  moment,  thinking  —  even  before  I  lit  my 
cigar — on  the  vanity  and  folly  of  those  poor,  pur 
blind  fellows,  who  go  on  puffing  for  half  a  lifetime 
against  dead  coals.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Heaven, 
in  its  mercy,  has  made  their  senses  so  obtuse,  that 
they  know  not  when  their  souls  are  in  a  flame,  or 
when  they  are  dead.  I  can  imagine  none  but  the 
most  moderate  satisfaction,  in  continuing  to  love 
what  has  got  no  ember  of  love  within  it.  The  Ital- 


92  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

ians  have  a  very  sensible  sort  of  proverb,  —  amare, 
e  non  essere  amato,  e  tempo  perduto,  —  to  love,  and 
not  be  loved,  is  time  lost. 

I  take  a  kind  of  rude  pleasure  in  flinging  down  a 
coal  that  has  no  life  in  it.  And  it  seemed  to  me  — 
and  may  Heaven  pardon  the  ill-nature  that  belongs 
to  the  thought  —  that  there  would  be  much  of  the 
same  kind  of  satisfaction  in  dashing  from  you  a  luke 
warm  creature,  covered  over  with  the  yellow  ashes 
of  old  combustion,  that  with  ever  so  much  attention, 
and  the  nearest  approach  of  the  lips,  never  shows 
signs  of  fire.  May  Heaven  forgive  me  again,  but  I 
should  long  to  break  away,  though  the  marriage 
bonds  held  me,  and  see  what  liveliness  was  to  be 
fouDd  elsewhere. 

I  have  seen  before  now  a  creeping  vine  try  to  grow 
up  against  a  marble  wall ;  it  shoots  out  its  tendrils 
in  all  directions,  seeking  for  some  crevice  by  which 
to  fasten  and  to  climb,  —  looking  now  above  and  now 
below,  twining  upon  itself,  reaching  farther  up,  — 
but  after  all  finding  no  good  foothold,  and  falling 
away  as  if  in  despair.  But  nature  is  not  unkind  ; 
twining  things  were  made  to  twine.  The  longing 
tendrils  take  new  strength  in  the  sunshine  and  in 
the  showers,  and  shoot  out  toward  some  hospitable 
trunk.  They  fasten  easily  to  the  kindly  roughness 
of  the  bark,  and  stretch  up,  dragging  after  them  the 


LIGHTED    WITH  A    COAL.  93 

vine ;  which  by-and-by,  from  the  topmost  bough, 
will  nod  its  blossoms  over  at  the  marble  wall  that 
refused  it  succor,  as  if  it  said,  —  Stand  there  in 
your  pride,  cold,  white  wall !  we,  the  tree  and  I,  are 
kindred ;  it  the  helper,  and  I  the  helped ;  and 
bound  fast  together,  we  riot  in  the  sunshine  and 
in  gladness. 

The  thought  of  this  image  made  me  search  for  a 
new  coal  that  should  have  some  brightness  in  it. 
There  may  be  a  white  ash  over  it,  indeed,  —  as  you 
will  find  tender  feelings  covered  with  the  mask  of 
courtesy,  or  with  the  veil  of  fear,  —  but  with  a 
breath  it  all  flies  off,  and  exposes  the  heat  and  the 
glow  that  you  are  seeking. 

At  the  first  touch,  the  delicate  edges  of  the  cigar 
crimple,  a  thin  line  of  smoke  rises,  —  doubtfully  for 
a  while,  and  with  a  coy  delay  ;  but  after  a  hearty 
respiration  or  two,  it  grows  strong,  and  my  cigar  is 
fairly  lighted. 

That  first  taste  of  the  new  smoke  and  of  the  fra 
grant  leaf  is  very  grateful ;  it  has  a  bloom  about  it 
that  you  wish  might  last.  It  is  like  your  first  love,  — 
fresh,  genial,  and  rapturous.  Like  that,  it  fills  up 
all  the  craving  of  your  soul ;  and  the  light,  blue 
wreaths  of  smoke,  like  the  roseate  clouds  that  hang 
around  the  morning  of  your  heart-life,  cut  you  oft' 
from  the  chill  atmosphere  of  mere  worldly  compan- 


94  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

ionship,  and  make  a  gorgeous  firmament  for  your 
fancy  to  riot  in. 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  those  later  and  manlier 
passions,  into  which  judgment  must  be  thrusting  its 
cold  tones,  and  when  all  the  sweet  tumult  of  your 
heart  has  mellowed  into  the  sober  ripeness  of  affec 
tion.  But  I  mean  that  boyish  burning  which  be 
longs  to  every  poor  mortal's  lifetime,  and  which  be 
wilders  him  with  the  thought  that  he  has  reached 
the  highest  point  of  human  joy,  before  he  has  tasted 
any  of  that  bitterness  from  which  alone  our  highest 
human  joys  have  sprung.  I  mean  the  time  when 
you  cut  initials  with  your  jack-knife  on  the  smooth 
bark  of  beech-trees ;  and  went  moping  under  the 
long  shadows  at  sunset ;  and  thought  Louise  the 
prettiest  name  in  the  wide  world  ;  and  picked 
flowers  to  leave  at  her  door  ;  and  stole  out  at  night 
to  watch  the  light  in  her  window ;  and  read  such 
novels  as  those  about  Helen  Mar,  or  Charlotte,  to 
give  some  adequate  expression  to  your  agonized 
feelings. 

At  such  a  stage,  you  are  quite  certain  that  you 
are  deeply  and  madly  in  love  ;  you  persist,  in  the 
face  of  heaven  and  earth.  You  would  like  to  meet 
the  individual  who  dared  to  doubt  it. 

You  think  she  has  the  tidiest  and  jauntiest  little 
figure  that  ever  was  seen.  You  think  back  upon 


LIGHTED    WITH  A    COAL.  95 

some  time  when,  in  your  games  of  forfeit,  you 
gained  a  kiss  from  those  lips  ;  and  it  seems  as  if  the 
kiss  was  hanging  on  you  yet,  and  warming  you  all 
over.  And  then  again,  it  seems  so  strange  that  your 
lips  did  really  touch  hers !  You  half  question  if  it 
could  have  been  actually  so,  —  and  how  you  could 
have  dared  ;  and  you  wonder  if  you  would  have 
courage  to  do  the  same  thing  again  ?  and  upon 
second  thought  are  quite  sure  you  would,  and  snap 
your  fingers  at  the  thought  of  it. 

What  sweet  little  hats  she  does  wear ;  and  in  the 
school-room,  when  the  hat  is  hung  up,  what  curls, 
golden  curls,  worth  a  hundred  Golcondas!  How 
bravely  you  study  the  top  lines  of  the  spelling-book, 
that  your  eyes  may  run  over  the  edge  of  the  cover 
without  the  schoolmaster's  notice,  and  feast  upon 
her! 

You  half  wish  that  somebody  would  run  away 
with  her,  as  they  did  with  Amanda,  in  the  "  Children 
of  the  Abbey " ;  and  then  you  might  ride  up  on  a 
splendid  black  horse,  and  draw  a  pistol  or  blun 
derbuss,  and  shoot  the  villains,  and  carry  her  back, 
all  in  tears,  fainting  and  languishing  upon  your 
shoulder,  and  have  her  father  (who  is  Judge  of  the 
County  Court)  take  your  hand  in  both  of  his,  and 
make  some  eloquent  remarks.  A  great  many  such 
recaptures  you  run  over  in  your  mind,  and  think 


96  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

how  delightful  it  would  be  to  peril  your  life,  either 
by  flood  or  fire,  —  to  cut  off  your  arm,  or  your  head, 
or  any  such  trifle,  for  your  dear  Louise. 

You  can  hardly  think  of  anything  more  joyous  in 
life  than  to  live  with  her  in  some  old  castle,  very  far 
away  from  steamboats  and  post-offices,  and  pick 
wild  geraniums  for  her  hair,  and  read  poetry  with 
her  under  the  shade  of  very  dark  ivy  vines.  And 
you  would  have  such  a  charming  boudoir  in  some 
corner  of  the  old  ruin,  with  a  harp  in  it,  and  books 
bound  in  gilt,  with  cupids  on  the  cover,  and  such  a 
fairy  couch,  with  the  curtains  hung  —  as  you  have 
seen  them  hung  in  some  illustrated  Arabian  stories 
—  upon  a  pair  of  carved  doves. 

And  when  they  laugh  at  you  about  it,  you  turn  it 
off  perhaps,  with  saying,  "  It  is  n't  so ; "  but  after 
ward,  in  your  chamber,  or  under  the  tree  where  you 
have  cut  her  name,  you  take  Heaven  to  witness  that 
it  is  so,  and  think,  What  a  cold  world  it  is,  to  be  so 
careless  about  such  holy  emotions !  You  perfectly 
hate  a  certain  stout  boy  in  a  green  jacket,  who  is 
forever  twitting  you,  and  calling  her  names  ;  but 
when  some  old  maiden  aunt  teases  you  in  her  kind, 
gentle  way,  you  bear  it  very  proudly,  and  with  a 
feeling  as  if  you  could  bear  a  great  deal  more  for 
her  sake.  And  when  the  minister  reads  off  marriage 
announcements  in  the  church,  you  think  how  it  will 


LIGHTED    WITH  A    COAL.  97 

sound,  one  of  these  days,  to  have  your  name  and 
hers  read  from  the  pulpit ;  and  how  the  people  will 
all  look  at  you,  and  how  prettily  she  will  blush  ; 
and  how  poor  little  Dick  —  who  you  know  loves 
her,  but  is  afraid  to  say  so  —  will  squirm  upon  his 
bench. 

Heigho  !  mused  I,  —  as  the  blue  smoke  rolled 

up  around  my  head,  —  these  first  kindlings  of  the 
love  that  is  in  one  are  very  pleasant !  but  will  they 
last? 

You  love  to  listen  to  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  as 
she  stirs  about  the  room.  It  is  better  music  than 
grown-up  ladies  will  make  upon  all  their  harpsi 
chords,  in  the  years  that  are  to  come.  But  this, 
thank  Heaven,  you  do  not  know. 

You  think  you  can  trace  her  footmark,  on  your 
way  to  the  school ;  and  what  a  dear  little  footmark 
it  is !  And  from  that  single  point,  if  she  be  out  of 
your  sight  for  days,  you  conjure  up  the  whole 
image  :  the  elastic,  lithe  little  figure,  —  the  springy 
step,  —  the  dotted  muslin,  so  light  and  flowing,  — • 
the  silk  kerchief,  with  its  most  tempting  fringe 
playing  upon  the  clear  white  of  her  throat ;  how  you 
envy  that  fringe !  And  her  chin  is  as  round  as  a 

• 

peach  ;  and  the  lips,  —  such  lips  !  and  you  sigh,  and 
hang  your  head,  and  wonder  when  you  sRall  see  her 
again. 

7 


98  -  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

You  would  like  to  write  her  a  letter  ;  but  then, 
people  would  talk  so  coldly  about  it ;  and  besides, 
you  are  not  quite  sure  you  could  write  such  billets 
as  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  used  to  write,  and  anything 
less  warm  or  elegant  would  not  do  at  all.  You  talk 
about  this  one  or  that  one,  whom  they  call  pretty,  in 
the  coolest  way  in  the  world :  you  see  very  little  of 
their  prettiness  ;  they  are  good  girls,  to  be  sure ; 
and  you  hope  they  will  get  good  husbands  some  day 
or  other ;  but  it  is  not  a  matter  that  concerns  you 
very  much.  They  do  not  live  in  your  world  of  ro 
mance  ;  they  are  not  the  angels  of  that  sky  which 
your  heart  makes  rosy,  and  to  which  I  have  likened 
the  blue  waves  of  this  rolling  smoke. 

You  can  even  joke  as  you  talk  of  others  ;  you  can 
smile  —  as  you  think  —  very  graciously  ;  you  can  say 
laughingly  that  you  are  deeply  in  love  with  them, 
and  think  it  a  most  capital  joke ;  you  can  touch 
their  hands,  or  steal  a  kiss  from  them  in  your 
games,  most  imperturbably  ;  —  they  are  very  dead 
coals. 

,  But  the  live  one  is  very  lively.  "When  you  take 
the  name  on  your  lip,  it  seems,  somehow,  to  be 
made  of  different  materials  from  the  rest ;  you  can 
not  half  so  easily  separate  it  into  letters ;  write  it, 
indeed,  you  can,  for  you  have  had  practice,  very 
much  private  practice  on  odd  scraps  of  paper,  and 


LIGHTED    WITH  A    COAL.  93 

on  the  fly-leaves  of  Geographies,  and  of  your  Natural 
Philosophy.  You  know  perfectly  well  how  it  looks  ; 
it  seems  to  be  written  indeed  somewhere  behind 
your  eyes,  and  in  such  happy  position,  with  respect 
to  the  optic  nerve,  that  you  see  it  all  the  time, 
though  you  are  looking  in  an  opposite  direction,  — 
and  so  distinctly,  that  you  have  great  fears  lest  peo 
ple  looking  into  your  eyes  should  see  it  too. 

For  all  this,  it  is  a  far  more  delicate  name  to  han 
dle  than  most  that  you  know  of.  Though  it  is  very 
cool  and  pleasant  on  the  brain,  it  is  very  hot  and 
difficult  to  manage  on  the  lip.  It  is  not,  as  your 
schoolmaster  would  say,  a  name,  so  much  as  it  ia 
an  idea  ;  not  a  noun,  but  a  verb,  —  an  active,  and 
transitive  verb;  and  yet  a  most  irregular  verb, 
wanting  the  passive  voice. 

It  is  something  against  your  schoolmaster's  doc 
trine,  to  find  warmth  in  the  moonlight ;  but  with 
that  soft  hand  —  it  is  very  soft  —  lying  within  your 
arm,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  warmth,  whatever  the 
philosophers  may  say,  even  in  pale  moonlight.  The 
beams,  too,  breed  sympathies,  very  close-running 
sympathies,  not  talked  about  in  the  chapters  on 
optics,  and  altogether  too  fine  for  language.  And 
under  their  influence,  you  retain  the  little  hand  that 
you  had  not  dared  retain  so  long  before  ;  and  her 
struggle  to  recover  it  —  if  indeed  it  be  a  struggle  — 


ioo  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

is  infinitely  less  than  it  was ;  nay  it  is  a  kind  of 
struggle,  not  so  much  against  you,  as  between  glad 
ness  and  modesty.  It  makes  you  as  bold  as  a  lion  ; 
and  the  feeble  hand,  like  a  poor  lamb  in  the  lion's 
clutch,  is  powerless,  and  very  meek  ;  and  failing  of 
escape,  it  will  sue  for  gentle  treatment,  and  will 
meet  your  warm  promise  with  a  kind  of  grateful 
pressure,  that  is  but  half  acknowledged  by  the  hand 
that  makes  it. 

My  cigar  is  burning  with  wondrous  freeness  ;  and 
from  the  smoke  flash  forth  images  bright  and  quick 
as  lightning,  with  no  thunder  but  the  thunder  of 
the  pulse.  But  will  it  all  last  ?  Damp  will  deaden 
the  fire  of  a  cigar ;  and  there  are  hellish  damps  — 
alas  !  too  many  —  that  will  deaden  the  early  blazing 
of  the  heart. 

She  is  pretty,  —  growing  prettier  to  your  eye  the 
more  you  look  upon  her,  and  prettier  to  your  ear 
the  more  you  listen  to  her.  But  you  wonder  who 
the  tall  boy  was,  whom  you  saw  walking  with  her 
two  days  ago.  He  was  not  a  bad-looking  boy  ;  on 
the  contrary,  you  think  (with  a  grit  of  your  teeth) 
that  he  was  infernally  handsome.  You  look  at  him 
very  shyly  and  very  closely  when  you  pass  him,  and 
turn  to  see  how  he  walks,  and  to  measure  his 
shoulders,  and  are  quite  disgusted  with  the  very 
modest  and  gentlemanly  way  with  which  he  carries 


LIGHTED    WITH  A    COAL.  101 

himself.  You  think  you  would  like  to  have  a  fisti 
cuff  with  him,  if  you  were  only  sure  of  having  the 
best  of  it.  You  sound  the  neighborhood  coyly,  to 
find  out  who  the  strange  boy  is,  and  are  half 
ashamed  of  yourself  for  doing  it. 

You  gather  a  magnificent  bouquet  to  send  her, 
and  tie  it  with  a  white  ribbon  and  love-knot ;  and 
get  a  little  rose-bud  in  acknowledgment.  Tliat  day 
you  pass  the  tall  boy  with  a  very  patronizing  look, 
and  wonder  if  he  would  not  like  to  have  a  sail  in 
your  boat  ? 

But  by-and-by  you  find  the  tall  boy  walking  with 
her  again  ;  and  she  looks  sideways  at  him,  and 
with  a  kind  of  grown-up  air  that  makes  you  feel 
very  boylike,  and  humble,  and  furious.  And  you 
look  daggers  at  him  when  you  pass,  and  touch  your 
cap  to  her  with  quite  uncommon  dignity,  —  and 
wonder  if  she  is  not  sorry,  and  does  not  feel  very 
badly,  to  have  got  such  a  look  from  you  ? 

On  some  other  day,  however,  you  meet  her  alone ; 
and  the  sight  of  her  makes  your  face  wear  a  genial, 
sunny  air ;  and  you  talk  a  little  sadly  about  your 
fears  and  your  jealousies.  She  seems  a  little  sad 
and  a  little  glad,  together  ;  and  is  sorry  she  has 
made  you  feel  badly,  —  and  you  are  sorry  too.  And 
with  this  pleasant  twin  sorrow  you  are  knit  together 
again  —  closer  than  ever.  That  one  little  tear  of 


102  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

hers  has  been  worth  more  to  you  than  a  thousand 
smiles.  Now  you  love  her  madly  ;  you  could  swear 
it,  —  swear  it  to  her,  or  swear  it  to  the  universe. 
You  even  say  as  much  to  some  kind  old  friend  at 
nightfall ;  but  your  mention  of  her  is  tremulous  and 
joyful,  with  a  kind  of  bound  in  your  speech,  as  if 
the  heart  worked  too  quick  for  the  tongue,  and  as  if 
the  lips  were  ashamed  to  be  passing  over  such  se 
crets  of  the  soul  to  the  mere  sense  of  hearing.  At 
this  stage  you  cannot  trust  yourself  to  epeak  her 
praises ;  or  if  you  venture,  the  expletives  fly  away 
with  your  thought  before  you  can  chain  it  into  lan 
guage  ;  and  your  speech,  at  your  best  endeavor,  is 
but  a  succession  of  broken  superlatives  that  you  are 
ashamed  of.  You  strain  for  language  that  will  scald 
the  thought  of  her  ;  but  hot  as  you  can  make  it,  it 
fulls  back  upon  your  heated  fancy  like  a  cold  shower. 
Heat  so  intense  as  this  consumes  very  fast ;  and 
the  matter  it  feeds  fastest  on,  is  —  judgment;  and 
with  judgment  gone,  there  is  room  for  jealousy  to 
creep  in.  You  grow  petulant  at  another  sight  of 
that  tall  boy  ;  and-  the  one  tear,  which  cured  your 
first  petulance,  will  not  cure  it  now.  You  let  a  lit 
tle  of  your  fever  break  out  in  speech  —  a  speech 
which  you  go  home  to  mourn  over.  But  she  knows 
nothing  of  the  mourning,  while  she  knows  very 
much  of  the  anger.  And  when  you  go  again  with 


LIGHTED    WITH  A    COAL.  103 

your  petulance,  you  will  find  your  rosy-lipped  girl 
taking  her  first  studies  in  dignity. 

You  will  stay  away,  you  say :  poor  fool,  you  are 
feeding  on  what  your  disease  loves  best.  You  won 
der  if  she  is  not  sighing  for  your  return,  and  if  your 
name  is  not  running  in  her  thought,  and  if  tears  of 
regret  are  not  moistening  those  sweet  eyes. 

And  wondering  thus,  you  stroll  moodily  and 

hopefully  toward  her  father's  home  ;  you  pass  the 
door  once,  twice  ;  you  loiter  under  the  shade  of  an 
old  tree  where  you  have  sometimes  Lid  her  adieu  ; 
your  old  fondness  is  struggling  with  your  pride,  and 
has  almost  made  the  mastery  ;  but  in  the  very 
moment  of  victory  you  see  yonder  your  hated  rival, 
and  beside  him,  looking  very  gleeful  and  happy,  — 
your  perfidious  Louise. 

How  quick  you  throw  off  the  marks  of  your  strug 
gle,  and  put  on  the  boldest  air  of  boyhood  ;  and 
what  a  dexterous  handling  to  your  knife,  and  a 
wonderful  keenness  to  the  edge,  as  you  cut  away 
from  the  bark  of  the  beech-tree  all  trace  of  her 
name  !  Still,  there  is  a  little  silent  relenting,  and  a 
few  sighs  at  night,  and  a  little  tremor  of  the  hand, 
as  you  tear  out,  the  next  day,  every  fly-leaf  that 
bears  her  name.  But  at  sight  of  your  rival  —  look 
ing  so  jaunty,  and  in  such  capital  spirits  — you  put 
on  the  proud  man  again.  You  may  meet  her,  but 


104  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

you  say  nothing  of  your  struggles  ;  oh,  no !  not  one 
word  of  that ;  but  you  talk  with  amazing  rapidity 
about  your  games,  or  what  not ;  and  you  never  — 
never  give  her  another  peep  into  your  boyish  heart. 

For  a  week,  you  do  not  see  her,  —  nor  for  a 
month,  —  nor  two  months,  —  nor  three. 

Puff,  puff,  once  more.  There  is  only  a  little 

nauseous  smoke ;  and  now  —  my  cigar  is  gone  out 
altogether.  I  must  light  again. 


n 

With  a  Wisp  of  Paper. 

THERE  are  those  who  throw  away  a  cigar  when 
once  gone  out ;  they  must  needs  have  plenty 
more.  But  nobody  that  I  ever  heard  of  keeps  a 
cedar  box  of  hearts  labelled  at  Havana.  Alas  !  there 
is  but  one  to  light ! 

But  can  a  heart  once  lit  be  lighted  again  ?  Au 
thority  on  this  point  is  worth  something  ;  yet  it 
should  be  impartial  authority.  I  would  be  loth  to 
take  in  evidence  of  the  fact  —  however  it  should 
tally  with  my  hope  —  the  affidavit  of  some  rakish  old 
widower,  who  had  cast  his  weeds  before  the  grass 
had  started  on  the  mound  of  his  affliction  ;  and  I 
should  be  as  slow  to  take,  in  way  of  rebutting  testi 
mony,  the  oath  of  any  sweet  young  girl  just  becom 
ing  conscious  of  her  heart's  existence  —  by  its  loss. 

Very  much,  it  seems   to  me,  depends  upon  the 


io6  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

quality  of  the  fire  ;  and  I  can  easily  conceive  of  one 
so  pure,  so  constant,  so  exhausting,  that  if  it  were 
once  gone  out,  whether  in  the  chills  of  death,  or 
under  the  blasts  of  pitiless  fortune,  there  would 
be  no  rekindling,  simply  because  there  would  be 
nothing  left  to  kindle.  And  I  can  imagine,  too,  a 
fire  so  earnest  and  so  true,  that,  whatever  malice 
might  urge,  or  a  devilish  ingenuity  devise,  there 
could  no  other  be  found,  high  or  low,  far  or  near, 
which  should  not  so  contrast  with  the  first  as  to 
make  it  seem  cold  as  ice. 

I  remember,  in  an  old  play  of  Davenport's,  the 
hero  is  led  to  doubt  his  mistress ;  he  is  worked  upon 
by  slanders  to  quit  her  altogether,  though  he  has 
loved,  and  does  still  love  passionately.  She  bids 
him  adieu,  with  large  tears  dropping  from  her  eyes  ; 
(and  I  lay  down  my  cigar,  to  recite  it  aloud,  fancy 
ing  all  the  while,  with  a  varlet  impudence,  that  some 
Abstemia  is  repeating  it  to  me  :) 

"  Farewell,  Lorenzo, 

Whom  my  soul  doth  love  ;  if  you  ever  marry, 
May  you  meet  a  good  wife  ;  so  good,  that  you 
May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  she  be  worthy 
Of  your  suspicion  :  and  if  you  hear  hereafter 
That  I  ain  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 
And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  loved  you. 
And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice 


WITH  A    WISP   OF  PAPER.  107 

Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me, 
Imagine  that  you  see  me  lean  and  pale, 
Strewing  your  paths  with  flowers  !  "  * 

Poor  Abstemia  !   Lorenzo  neVer  could  find 

such  another  :  there  never  could  be  such  another, 
for  such  Lorenzo. 

To  blaze  anew,  it  is  essential  that  the  old  fire  be 
utterly  gone  ;  and  can  any  truly-lighted  soul  ever 
grow  cold,  except  the  grave  cover  it  ?  The  poets  all 
say  no  :  Othello,  had  he  lived  a  thousand  years, 
would  not  have  loved  again  ;  nor  Desdemona,  —  nor 
Andromache,  —  nor  Medea,  —  nor  Ulysses,  —  nor 
Hamlet.  But  in  the  cool  wreaths  of  the  pleasant 
smoke,  let  us  see  what  truth  is  in  the  poets. 

What  is  love,  mused  I,  at  the  first,  but  a 

mere  fancy  ?  There  is  a  prettiness  that  your  soul 
cleaves  to,  as  your  eye  to  a  pleasant  flower,  or  your 
ear  to  a  soft  melody.  Presently,  admiration  comes 
in,  as  a  sort  of  balance-wheel  for  the  eccentric  revo 
lutions  of  your  fancy,  and  your  admiration  is 
touched  off  with  such  neat  quality  as  respect.  Too 
much  of  this,  indeed,  they  say,  deadens  the  fancy, 
and  so  retards  the  action  of  the  heart-machinery, 
But  with  a  proper  modicum  to  serve  as  a  stock, 
devotion  is  grafted  in  ;  and  then,  by  an  agreeable 

*  The  City  Night-Cap,  Act  ii.  Sc.  2. 


io8  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

and  confused  mingling,  all  these  qualities  and  af 
fections  of  the  soul  become  transfused  into  that 
vital  feeling  called  Love. 

Your  heart  seems  to  have  gone  over  to  another 
and  better  counterpart  of  your  humanity  ;  what  is 
left  of  you  seems  the  mere  husk  of  some  kernel  that 
has  been  stolen.  It  is  not  an  emotion  of  yours, 
which  is  making  very  easy  voyages  toward  another 
soul,  —  that  may  be  shortened  or  lengthened  at 
will ;  but  it  is  a  passion  that  is  only  yours  because 
it  is  there ;  the  more  it  lodges  there,  the  more 
keenly  you  feel  it  to  be  yours. 

The  qualities  that  feed  this  passion  may,  indeed, 
belong  to  you,  but  they  never  gave  birth  to  such  an 
one  before,  simply  because  there  was  no  place  in 
which  it  could  grow.  Nature  is  very  provident  in 
these  matters.  The  chrysalis  does  not  burst  until 
there  is  a  wing  to  help  the  gauze-fly  upward.  The 
shell  does  not  break  until  the  bird  can  breathe ;  nor 
does  the  swallow  quit  its  nest  until  its  wings  are 
tipped  with  the  airy  oars. 

This  passion  of  love  is  strong,  just  in  proportion 
as  the  atmosphere  it  finds  is  tender  of  its  life.  Let 
that  atmosphere  change  into  too  great  coldness,  and 
the  passion  becomes  a  wreck,  —  not  yours,  because 
it  is  not  worth  your  having,  —  nor  vital,  because  it 
has  lost  the  soil  where  it  grew.  But  is  it  not  laying 


WITH  A   WISP  OF  PAPER.  109 

the  reproach  in  a  high  quarter,  to  say  that  those 
qualities  of  the  heart,  which  begot  this  passion,  are 
exhausted,  and  will  not  thenceforth  germinate 
through  all  of  your  lifetime  ? 

Take  away  the  worm-eaten  frame  from  your 

arbor  plant,  and  the  wrenched  arms  of  the  despoiled 
climber  will  not,  at  the  first,  touch  any  new  trellis  ; 
they  cannot  in  a  day  change  the  habit  of  a  year. 
But  let  the  new  support  stand  firmly,  and  the  needy 
tendrils  will  presently  lay  hold  upon  the  stranger ; 
and  your  plant  will  regain  its  pride  and  pomp,  — 
cherishing,  perhaps,  in  its  bent  figure,  a  memento 
of  the  Old,  but  in  its  more  earnest  and  abounding 
life  mindful  only  of  its  sweet  dependence  on  the 
New. 

Let  the  poets  say  what  they  will,  these  affections 
of  ours  are  not  blind,  stupid  creatures,  to  starve 
under  polar  snows,  when  the  very  breezes  of  Heaven 
are  the  appointed  messengers  to  guide  them  toward 
warmth  and  sunshine. 

And  with  a  little  suddenness  of  manner  I  tear 

off  a  wisp  of  paper,  and  holding  it  in  the  blaze  of 
my  lamp,  relight  my  cigar.  It  does  not  burn  so 
easily,  perhaps,  as  at  first  ;  it  wants  warming  before 
it  will  catch  ;  but  presently  it  is  in  a  broad,  full 
glow,  that  throws  light  into  the  corners  of  my 
reoin. 


no  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Just  so,  thought  I,  the  love  of  youth,  which 

succeeds  the  crackling  blaze  of  boyhood,  makes  a 
broader  flame,  though  it  may  not  be  so  easily 
krndled.  A  mere  dainty  step,  or  a  curling  lock,  or 
a  soft  blue  eye,  are  not  enough  ;  but  in  her  who  has 
quickened  the  new  blaze  there  is  a  blending  of  all 
these,  with  a  certain  sweetness  of  soul  that  finds  ex 
pression  in  whatever  feature  or  motion  you  look 
upon.  Her  charms  steal  over  you  gently,  and 
almost  imperceptibly.  You  think  that  she  is  a 
pleasant  companion,  —  nothing  more  ;  and  you  find 
the  opinion  strongly  confirmed  day  by  day,  —  so 
well  confirmed,  indeed,  that  you  begin  to  wonder 
why  it  is  that  she  is  such  a  delightful  companion  ? 
It  cannot  be  her  eye,  for  you  have  seen  eyes  almost 
as  pretty  as  Nelly's ;  nor  can  it  be  her  mouth, 
though  Nelly's  mouth  is  certainly  very  sweet.  And 
you  keep  studying  what  on  earth  it  can  be  that 
makes  you  so  earnest  to  be  near  her,  or  to  listen  to 
her  voice.  The  study  is  pleasant :  you  do  not  know 
any  study  that  is  more  so,  or  which  you  accomplish 
with  less  mental  fatigue. 

Upon  a  sudden,  some  fine  day,  when  the  air  is 
balmy,  and  the  recollection  of  Nelly's  voice  and  man 
ner  more  balmy  still,  you  wonder  if  you  are  in  love  ? 
When  a  man  has  such  a  wonder,  he  is  either  very 
near  love,  or  he  is  very  far  away  from  it ;  it  is  a  won- 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  in 

der  that  is  either  suggested  by  his  hope,  or  by  that 
entanglement  of  feeling  which  blunts  all  his  percep 
tions. 

But  if  not  in  love,  you  have  at  least  a  strong  fancy  ; 
so  strong,  that  you  tell  your  friends  carelessly  that 
she  is  a  nice  girl,  nay,  a  beautiful  girl ;  and  if  your 
education  has  been  bad,  you  strengthen  the  epithet 
on  your  own  tongue  with  a  very  wicked  expletive,  of 
which  the  mildest  form  would  be  —  "  deuced  fine 
girl ! "  Presently,  however,  you  get  beyond  this, 
and  your  companionship  and  your  wonder  relapse 
into  a  constant,  quiet  habit  of  unmistakable  love,  — - 
not  impulsive,  quick,  and  fiery,  like  the  first,  but 
mature  and  calm.  It  is  as  if  it  were  born  with  your 
soul ;  and  the  recognition  of  it  was  rather  an  old  re 
membrance  than  a  fresh  passion.  It  does  not  seek 
to  gratify  its  exuberance  and  force  with  such  relief 
as  night-serenades,  or  any  Jacques-like  meditations 
in  the  forest ;  but  it  is  a  quiet,  still  joy,  that  floats 
on  your  hope  into  the  years  to  come,  making  the 
prospect  all  sunny  and  joyful 

It  is  a  kind  of  oil  and  balm  for  whatever  was 
stormy  or  harmful ;  it  gives  a  permanence  to  the 
smile  of  existence.  It  does  not  make  the  sea  of 
your  life  turbulent  with  high  emotions,  as  if  a 
strong  wind  were  blowing ;  but  it  is  as  if  an 
Aphrodite  had  broken  on  the  surface,  and  the  rip- 


Ii2  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

pies  were  spreading  with  a  sweet,  low  sound,  and 
widening  far  out  to  the  very  shores  of  Time. 

There  is  no  need  now,  as  with  the  boy,  to  bolster 
up  your  feelings  with  extravagant  vows  ;  even  should 
you  try  this  in  her  presence,  the  words  are  lacking 
to  put  such  vows  in.  So  soon  as  you  reach  them, 
they  fail  you ;  and  the  oath  only  quivers  on  the  lip, 
or  tells  its  story  by  a  pressure  of  the  fingers.  You 
wear  a  brusque,  pleasant  air  with  your  acquaintances, 
and  hint  —  with  a  sly  look  —  at  possible  changes  in 
your  circumstances.  Of  an  evening,  you  are  kind  to 
the  most  unattractive  of  the  wall-flowers,  —  if  only 
your  Nelly  is  away  ;  and  you  have  a  sudden  charity 
for  street-beggars  with  pale  children.  You  catch 
yourself  taking  a  step  in  one  of  the  new  polkas,  upon 
a  country  walk  ;  and  wonder  immensely  at  the  num 
ber  of  bright  days  which  succeed  each  other,  with 
out  leaving  a  single  stormy  gap  for  your  old  melan 
choly  moods.  Even  the  chambermaids  at  your  hotel 
never  did  their  duty  one  half  so  well ;  and  as  for 
your  man  Tom,  he  is  become  a  perfect  pattern  of  a 
fellow. 

My  cigar  is  in  a  fine  glow ;  but  it  has  gone  out 
once,  and  it  may  go  out  again. 

You  begin  to  talk  of  marriage  ;  but  some  ob 
stinate  papa  or  guardian  uncle  thinks  that  it  will 
never  do,  —  that  it  is  quite  too  soon,  or  that  Nelly  is 


WITH  A   WISP  OF  PAPER.  113 

a  mere  girl.  Or,  some  of  your  wild  oats  —  quite  for 
gotten  by  yourself  —  shoot  up  on  the  vision  of  a  staid 
mamma,  and  throw  a  very  damp  shadow  on  your 
character.  Or,  the  old  lady  has  an  ambition  of 
another  sort,  which  you,  a  simple,  earnest,  plodding 
Bachelor,  can  never  gratify  ;  —  being  of  only  passa 
ble  appearance,  and  unschooled  in  the  fashions  of 
the  world,  you  will  be  eternally  rubbing  the  elbows 
of  the  old  lady's  pride. 

All  this  will  be  strangely  afflictive  to  one  who  has 
been  living  for  quite  a  number  of  weeks  or  months 
in  a  pleasant  dream-land,  where  there  were  no  five 
per  cents,  or  reputations,  but  only  a  very  full  and 
delirious  flow  of  feeling.  What  care  you  for  any  po 
sition,  except  a  position  near  the  being  that  you 
love  ?  What  wealth  do  you  prize,  except  a  wealth  of 
heart  that  shall  never  know  diminution  ;  or  for  repu 
tation,  except  that  of  truth  and  of  honor?  How 
hard  it  would  break  upon  these  pleasant  idealities 
to  have  a  wrinkle-faced  old  guardian  set  his  arm  in 
yours,  and  tell  you  how  tenderly  he  has  at  heart  the 
happiness  of  his  niece  ;  and  reason  with  you  about 
your  very  small  and  sparse  dividends,  and  your 
limited  business  ;  and  caution  you  —  for  he  has  a 
lively  regard  for  your  interests  —  about  continuing 
your  addresses  ? 

The  kind  old  curmudgeon  ! 

8 


114  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Your  man  Tom  has  grown  suddenly  a  very  stupid 
fellow  ;  and  all  your  charity  for  withered  wall-flow 
ers  is  gone.  Perhaps,  in  your  wrath,  the  suspicion 
comes  over  you  that  she  too  wishes  you  were  some 
thing  higher,  or  more  famous,  or  richer,  or  anything 
but  what  you  are  —  a  very  dangerous  suspicion  ;  for 
no  man  with  any  true  nobility  of  soul  can  ever  make 
his  heart  the  slave  of  another's  condescension. 

But  no  ;  you  will  not,  you  cannot  believe  this  of 
Nelly.  That  face  of  hers  is  too  mild  and  gracious  ; 
and  her  manner,  as  she  takes  your  hand  after  your 
heart  is  made  sad,  and  turns  away  those  rich  blue 
eyes,  shadowed  more  deeply  than  ever  by  the  long 
and  moistened  fringe,  —  and  the  exquisite  softness 
,and  meaning  of  the  pressure  of  those  little  fingers,  — 
and  the  low,  half  sob,  —  and  the  heaving  of  that 
bosom  in  its  struggles  between  love  and  duty,  —  all 
forbid.  Nelly,  you  could  swear,  is  tenderly  indul 
gent  —  like  the  fond  creature  that  she  is  —  toward 
all  your  shortcomings,  and  would  not  barter  your 
strong  love  and  your  honest  heart  for  the  greatest 
magnate  in  the  land. 

What  a  spur  to  effort  is  the  confiding  love  of  a 
true-hearted  woman !  That  last  fond  look  of  hers, 
hopeful  and  encouraging,  has  more  power  within  it 
to  nerve  your  soul  to  high  deeds  than  all  the  admoni 
tions  of  all  your  tutors.  Your  heart,  beating  large 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  115 

with  hope,  quickens  the  flow  upon  the  brain,  and  you 
make  wild  vows  to  win  greatness.  But  alas  !  this  is 
a  great  world  —  very  full  and  very  rough,  — 

"all  up-hill  work  when  we  would  do  ; 
All  down-hill,  when  we  suffer."  * 

Hard,  withering  toil  only  can  achieve  a  name  ; 
and  long  days  and  months  and  years  must  be  passed 
in  the  chase  of  that  bubble  —  reputation  ;  which, 
when  once  grasped,  breaks  in  your  eager  clutch  into 
a  hundred  lesser  bubbles  that  soar  above  you  still. 

A  clandestine  meeting  from  time  to  time,  and  a 
note  or  two  tenderly  written,  keep  up  the  blaze  in 
your  heart.  But  presently  the  lynx-eyed  old  guard 
ian  —  so  tender  of  your  interests  and  hers  —  forbids 
even  this  irregular  and  unsatisfying  correspondence. 
Now  you  can  feed  yourself  only  on  stray  glimpses  of 
her  figure,  as  full  of  sprightliness  and  grace  as  ever  ; 
and  that  beaming  face,  you  are  half  sorry  to  see 
from  time  to  time,  still  beautiful.  You  struggle 
with  your  moods  of  melancholy  and  wear  bright 
looks  yourself,  —  bright  to  her,  and  very  bright  to 
the  eye  of  the  old  curmudgeon  who  has  snatched 
your  heart  away.  It  will  never  do  to  show  your 
weakness  to  a  man. 

*  Festus. 


ii6  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

At  length,  on  some  pleasant  morning,  you  learn 
that  she  is  gone,  —  too  far  away  to  be  seen,  too 
closely  guarded  to  be  reached.  For  a  while  you 
throw  down  your  books,  and  abandon  your  toil  in 
despair,  thinking  very  bitter  thoughts,  and  making 
very  hopeless  resolves. 

My  cigar  is  still  burning  ;  but  it  will  require  con 
stant  and  strong  respiration  to  keep  it  in  a  glow. 

A  letter  or  two,  dispatched  at  random,  relieve  the 
excess  of  your  fever,  until,  with  practice,  these  ran 
dom  letters  have  even  less  heat  in  them  than  the 
heat  of  your  study  or  of  your  business.  Grief,  thank 
God !  is  not  so  progressive  or  so  cumulative  as  joy. 
For  a  time  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the  mood  with 
which  you  recall  your  broken  hopes,  and  with  which 
you  selfishly  link  hers  to  the  shattered  wreck  ;  but 
absence  and  ignorance  tame  the  point  of  your  woe. 
You  call  up  the  image  of  Nelly  adorning  other  and 
distant  scenes.  You  see  the  tearful  smile  give  place 
to  a  blithesome  cheer  ;  and  the  thought  of  you,  that 
shaded  her  fair  face  so  long,  fades  under  the  sun 
shine  of  gayety  ;  or,  at  best,  it  only  seems  to  cross 
that  white  forehead  like  a  playful  shadow  that  a 
fleecy  cloud-remnant  will  fling  upon  a  sunny  lawn. 

As  for  you,  the  world,  with  its  whirl  and  roar,  is 
deafening  the  sweet,  distant  notes  that  come  up 
through  old,  choked  channels  of  the  affections. 


WITH  A    WISP   OF  PAPER.  117 

Life  is  calling  for  earnestness,  and  not  for  regrets. 
So  the  months  and  the  years  slip  by  ;  your  Bachelor 
habit  grows  easy  and  light  with  wearing  ;  you  have 
mourned  enough  to  smile  at  the  violent  mourning 
of  others  ;  and  you  have  enjoyed  enough  to  sigh 
over  their  little  eddies  of  delight.  Dark  shades  and 
delicious  streaks  of  crimson  and  gold  color  lie  upon 
your  life.  Your  heart,  with  all  its  weight  of  ashes, 
can  yet  sparkle  at  the  sound  of  a  fairy  step,  and 
your  face  can  yet  open  into  a  round  of  joyous  smiles  — 
that  are  almost  hopes  —  in  the  presence  of  some 
bright-eyed  girl. 

But  amid  this  there  will  float  over  you,  from  time 
to  time,  a  midnight  trance,  in  which  you  will  hear 
again  with  a  thirsty  ear  the  witching  melody  of  the 
days  that  are  gone  ;  and  you  will  wake  from  it  with 
a  shudder  into  the  cold  resolves  of  your  lonely  and 
manly  life.  But  the  shudder  passes  as  easy  as  night 
from  morning.  Tearful  regrets,  and  memories  that 
touch  to  the  quick,  are  dull  weapons  to  break 
through  the  panoply  of  your  seared,  eager,  and 
ambitious  manhood.  They  only  venture  out,  like 
timid,  white-winged  flies,  when  night  is  come  ;  and 
at  the  first  glimpse  of  the  dawn  they  shrivel  up,  and 
lie  without  a  flutter  in  some  corner  of  your  soul. 

And  when,  years  after,  you  learn  that  she  has  re 
turned  —  a  woman,  there  is  a  slight  glow,  but  no 


Ii8  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

tumultuous  bound  of  the  heart.  Life  and  time  have 
worried  you  down  like  a  spent  hound.  The  world 
has  given  you  a  habit  of  easy  and  unmeaning  smiles. 
You  half  accuse  yourself  of  ingratitude  and  forget- 
fulness  ;  but  the  accusation  does  not  oppress  you. 
It  does  not  even  distract  your  attention  from  the 
morning  journal.  You  cannot  work  yourself  into  a 
respectable  degree  of  indignation  against  the  old 
gentleman  —  her  guardian. 

You  sigh  —  poor  thing!  —  and  in  a  very  flashy 
waist-coat  you  venture  a  morning  call. 

She  meets  you  kindly,  —  a  comely,  matronly  dame 
in  gingham,  with  her  curls  all  gathered  under  a  high- 
topped  comb  ;  and  she  presents  to  you  two  little  boys 
in  smart  crimson  jackets  dressed  up  with  braid  ; 
and  you  dine  with  Madame  —  a  family  party  ;  and 
the  wrinkle-faced  old  gentleman  meets  you  with  a 
most  pleasant  shake  of  the  hand,  —  hints  that  you 
were  among  his  niece's  earliest  friends,  and  hopes 
that  you  are  getting  on  well. 

Capitally  well ! 

And  the  boys  toddle  in  at  dessert,  —  Dick,  to  get 
a  plum  from  your  own  dish  ;  Tom,  to  be  kissed  by 
his  rosy-faced  papa.  In  short,  you  are  made  per 
fectly  at  home ;  and  you  sit  over  your  wine  for  an  hour, 
in  a  cosy  smoke  with  the  gentlemanly  uncle,  and 
with  the  very  courteous  husband  of  your  second  flame. 


WITH  A    WISP  OF  PAPER.  119 

It  is  all  veiy  jovial  at  the  table  ;  for  good  wine  is, 
I  find,  a  great  strengthener  of  the  Bachelor  heart. 
But  afterward,  when  night  has  fairly  set  in,  and  the 
blaze  of  your  fire  goes  flickering  over  your  lonely 
quarters,  you  heave  a  deep  sigh.  And  as  your 
thought  runs  back  to  the  perfidious  Louise,  and 
calls  up  the  married  and  matronly  Nelly,  you  sob 
over  that  poor  dumb  heart  within  you,  which  craves 
so  madly  a  free  and  joyous  utterance.  And  as  you 
lean  over,  with  your  forehead  on  your  hand,  and 
your  eyes  fall  upon  the  old  hound  slumbering  on 
the  rug,  vain  regrets  torment  you,  and  you  wish  that 
you  had  married  years  ago,  and  that  you  too  had 
your  pair  of  prattling  boys,  to  drive  away  the  loneli 
ness  of  your  solitary  hearth-stone. 

My  cigar  would  not  go ;  it  was  fairly  out 

But,  with  true  Bachelor  obstinacy,  I  vowed  that  I 
would  light  again. 


in. 

Lighted  with  a,  Match. 

T  HATE  a  match.  I  feel  sure  that  brimstone 
-•-  matches  were  never  made  in  heaven  ;  and  it  is 
sad  to  think  that,  with  few  exceptions,  matches  are 
all  of  them  tipped  with  brimstone. 

But  my  taper  having  burned  out,  and  the  coals 
being  all  dead  upon  the  hearth,  a  match  is  all  that 
is  left  to  me. 

All  matches  will  not  blaze  on  the  first  trial ;  and 
there  are  those  that,  with  the  most  indefatigable 
coaxings,  never  show  a  spark.  They  may  indeed 
leave  in  their  trail  phosphorescent  streaks,  but  you 
can  no  more  light  your  cigar  at  them  than  you  can 
kindle  your  heart  at  the  covered  wife-trails  which 
the  infernal,  gossiping,  old  match-makers  will  lay  in 
your  path. 

Was  there  ever  a  Bachelor  of  seven-and-twenty,  I 


LIGHTED    WITH  A   MATCH.  121 

wonder,  who  has  not  been  haunted  by  pleasant  old 
ladies,  and  trim,  excellent,  good-natured  married 
friends,  who  talk  to  him  about  nice  matches  — 
"  very  nice  matches,"  —  matches  which  never  go 
off?  And  who,  pray,  has  not  had  some  kind  old 
uncle  to  fill  two  sheets  for  him  (perhaps  in  the  time 
of  heavy  postages)  about  some  most  eligible  con 
nection  —  "  of  highly  respectable  parentage  ! " 

What  a  delightful  thing,  surely,  for  a  withered 
Bachelor,  to  bloom  forth  in  the  dignity  of  an  ances 
tral  tree  !  What  a  precious  surprise  for  him,  who 
has  all  his  life  worshipped  the  wing-heeled  Mercury, 
to  find  on  a  sudden  a  great  stock  of  preserved  and 
most  respectable  Penates ! 

In  God's  name,  thought  I,  puffing  vehemently, 

what  is  a  man's  heart  given  him  for,  if  not  to  choose 
where  his  heart's  blood,  every  drop  of  it,  is  flowing  ? 
Who  is  going  to  dam  these  billowy  tides  of  the  soul, 
whose  roll  is  ordered  by  a  planet  greater  than  the 
moon,  and  that  planet — Venus?  Who  is  going  to 
shift  this  vane  of  my  desires,  when  every  breeze 
that  passes  in  my  heaven  is  keeping  it  all  the  more 
strongly  to  its  fixed  bearings? 

Besides  this,  there  are  the  money -matches,  urged 
upon  you  by  disinterested  bachelor  friends,  who 
would  be  very  proud  to  see  you  at  the  head  of  an 
establishment.  And  I  must  confess  that  this  kind 


122  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

of  talk  has  a  pleasant  jingle  about  it,  and  is  one  of 
the  cleverest  aids  to  a  Bachelor's  day-dreams  that 
can  well  be  imagined.  And  let  not  the  pouting  lady 
condemn  me  without  a  hearing. 

It  is  certainly  cheerful  to  think  —  for  a  contem 
plative  Bachelor  —  that  the  pretty  ermine  which  so 
sets  off  the  transparent  hue  of  your  imaginary  wife, 
or  the  lace  which  lies  so  bewitchingly  upon  the 
superb  roundness  of  her  form,  or  the  graceful 
bodice,  trimmed  to  a  line,  which  is  of  such  exquisite 
adaptation  to  her  lithe  figure,  will  be  always  at  her 
command  ;  nay,  that  these  are  only  units  among  the 
chameleon  hues,  under  which  you  shall  feed  upon 
her  beauty  !  I  want  to  know  if  it  is  not  a  pretty 
cabinet  picture  for  fancy  to  luxuriate  upon  —  that 
of  a  sweet  wife,  who  is  cheating  hosls  of  friends  into 
love,  sympathy,  and  admiration,  by  the  modest 
munificence  of  her  wealth  ?  Is  it  not  rather  agree 
able  to  feed  your  hopeful  soul  upon  that  abundance, 
which,  while  it  supplies  her  need,  will  give  a  range 
to  her  loving  charities ;  which  will  keep  from  her 
brow  the  shadows  of  anxiety,  and  will  sublime  her 
gentle  nature,  by  adding  to  it  the  grace  of  an  angel 
of  mercy  ? 

Is  it  not  rich,  in  those  days  when  the  pestilent 
humors  of  Bachelorhood  hang  heavy  on  you,  to  fore 
see  in  that  shadowy  realm,  where  hope  is  a  native, 


LIGHTED    WITH  A  MATCH.  123 

the  quiet  of  a  home  made  splendid  with  attractions, 
and  made  real  by  the  presence  of  her  who  bestows 
them  ?  Upon  my  word,  —  thought  I,  as  I  continued 
puffing,  —  such  a  match  must  make  a  very  grateful 
lighting  of  one's  inner  sympathies  ;  nor  am  I  pre 
pared  to  say  that  such  associations  would  not  add 
force  to  the  most  abstract  love  imaginable. 

Think  of  it  for  a  moment :  what  is  it  that  we 
poor  fellows  love  ?  We  love  —  if  one  may  judge  for 
himself,  over  his  cigar  —  gentleness,  beauty,  refine 
ment,  generosity,  and  intelligence,  —  and  far  above 
these,  a  returning  love,  made  up  of  all  these  quali 
ties,  and  gaming  upon  your  love,  day  by  day  and 
month  by  month,  like  a  sunny  morning  gaining 
upon  the  frosts  of  night. 

But  wealth  is  a  great  means  of  refinement ;  and  it 
is  a  security  for  gentleness,  since  it  removes  disturb 
ing  anxieties  ;  and  it  is  a  pretty  promoter  of  intelli 
gence,  since  it  multiplies  the  avenues  for  its  re 
ception  ;  and  it  is  a  good  basis  for  a  generous  habit 
of  life  :  it  even  equips  beauty,  neither  hardening  its 
hand  with  toil,  nor  tempting  the  wrinkles  to  come 
early.  But  whether  it  provokes  greatly  that  return 
ing  passion,  that  abnegation  of  soul,  that  sweet 
trustfulness  and  abiding  affection  which  are  to 
clothe  your  heart  with  joy,  is  far  more  doubtful. 
Wealth,  while  it  gives  so  much,  asks  much  in  re- 


124  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

turn  ;  and  the  soul  that  is  grateful  to  mammon  is 
not  over-ready  to  be  grateful  for  intensity  of  love. 
It  is  hard  to  gratify  those  who  have  nothing  left  to 
gratify. 

Heaven  help  the  man,  who,  having  wearied  his 
soul  with  delays  and  doubts,  or  exhausted  the  fresh 
ness  and  exuberance  of  his  youth  by  a  hundred  little 
dallyings  of  love,  consigns  himself  at  length  to  the 
issues  of  what  people  call  a  nice  match,  —  whether 
of  money,  or  of  family. 

Heaven  help  you  (I  brushed  the  ashes  from  my 
cigar)  when  you  begin  to  regard  marriage  as  only 
a  respectable  institution,  and  under  the  advices  of 
staid  old  friends  begin  to  look  about  you  for  some 
very  respectable  wife  !  You  may  admire  her  figure, 
and  her  family,  and  bear  pleasantly  in  mind  the  very 
casual  mention  which  has  been  made  by  some  of 
your  penetrating  friends  that  she  has  large  expec 
tations.  You  think  that  she  would  make  a  very- 
capital  appearance  at  the  head  of  your  table  ;  nor, 
in  the  event  of  your  coming  to  any  public  honor, 
would  she  make  you  blush  for  her  breeding.  She 
talks  well,  exceedingly  well ;  and  her  face  has  its 
charms,  especially  under  a  little  excitement.  Her 
dress  is  elegant  and  tasteful,  and  she  is  constantly 
remarked  upon  by  all  your  Mends  as  a  "  nice  per 
son."  Some  good  old  lady,  in  whose  pew  she 


LIGHTED    WITH  A  MATCH.  125 

occasionally  sits  of  a  Sunday,  or  to  whom  she  haa 
sometimes  sent  a  papier-mache  card-case  for  the 
show-box  of  some  Dorcas  benevolent  society,  thinks 
with  a  sly  wink,  that  she  would  make  a  fine  wife  for 

—  somebody. 

She  certainly  has  an  elegant  figure  ;  and  the  mar 
riage  of  some  half-dozen  of  your  old  flames  warn 
you  that  time  is  slipping  and  your  chances  failing. 
And  in  the  pleasant  warmth  of  some  after-dinner 
mood  you  resolve  —  with  her  image  in  her  prettiest 
pelisse  drifting  across  your  brain  —  that  you  will 
marry.  Now  comes  the  pleasant  excitement  of  the 
chase  ;  and  whatever  family  dignity  may  surround 
her,  only  adds  to  the  pleasurable  glow  of  the  pur 
suit.  You  give  an  hour  more  to  your  toilette,  and 
a  hundred  or  two  more  a  year  to  your  tailor.  All  is 
orderly,  dignified,  and  gracious.  Charlotte  is  a  sen 
sible  woman,  everybody  says  ;  and  you  believe  it 
yourself.  You  agree  in  your  talk  about  books,  and 
churches,  and  flowers.  Of  course  she  has  good  taste 

—  for  she  accepts  you.     The  acceptance  is  dignified, 
elegant,  and  even  courteous. 

You  receive  numerous  congratulations  ;  and  your 
old  friend  Tom  writes  you  —  that  he  hears  you  are 
going  to  marry  a  splendid  woman  ;  and  all  the  old 
ladies  say  —  what  a  capital  match  !  And  your  busi 
ness  partner,  who  is  a  married  man  and  something 


126  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

of  a  wag,  "  sympathizes  sincerely."  Upon  the 
whole,  you  feel  a  little  proud  of  your  arrangement. 
You  write  to  an  old  friend  in  the  country  that  you 
are  to  marry  presently  Miss  Charlotte  of  such  a 
street,  whose  father  was  something  very  fine  in  his 
way,  and  whose  father  before  him  was  very  distin 
guished  ;  you  add,  in  a  postscript,  that  she  is  easily 
situated,  and  has  "  expectations."  Your  friend, 
who  has  a  wife  that  he  loves  and  that  loves  him, 
writes  back  kindly,  —  "  hoping  you  may  be  happy; " 
and  hoping  so  yourself,  you  light  your  cigar  —  one 
of  your  last  bachelor  cigars  —  with  the  margin  of 
his  letter. 

The  match  goes  off  with  a  brilliant  marriage,  —  at 
which  you  receive  a  very  elegant  welcome  from  your 
wife's  spinster  cousins,  and  drink  a  great  deal  of 
champagne  with  her  bachelor  uncles.  And  as  you 
take  the  dainty  hand  of  your  bride,  —  very  magnifi 
cent  under  that  bridal  wreath,  and  with  her  face  lit 
up  by  a  brilliant  glow,  —  your  eye  and  your  soul  for 
the  first  time  grow  full.  And  as  your  arm  circles 
that  elegant  figure,  and  you  draw  her  toward  you, 
feeling  that  she  is  yours,  there  is  a  bound  at 
your  heart  that  makes  you  think  your  life  is  now 
whole  and  earnest.  All  your  early  dreams  and 
imaginations  come  flowing  on  your  thought  like  be 
wildering  music  ;  and  as  you  gaze  upon  her,  —  the 


LIGHTED    WITH  A   MATCH.  127 

admiration  of  that  crowd,  —  it  seems  to  you  that  all 
that  your  heart  prizes  is  mads  good  by  the  accident 
of  marriage. 

—  Ah,  thought  I,  brushing  off  the  ashes  again, 
bridal  pictures  are  not  home  pictures,  and  the  hour 
at  the  altar  is  but  a  poor  type  of  the  waste  of 
years ! 

Your  household  is  elegantly  ordered  ;  Charlotte 
has  secured  the  best  of  housekeepers,  and  she  meets 
the  compliments  of  your  old  friends,  who  come  to 
dine  with  you,  with  a  suavity  that  is  never  at  fault. 
And  they  tell  you  —  after  the  cloth  is  removed,  and 
you  sit  quietly  smoking  in  memory  of  the  olden 
times  —  that  she  is  a  splendid  woman.  Even  the 
old  ladies  who  come  for  occasional  charities,  think 
Madame  a  pattern  of  a  lady  ;  and  so  think  her  old 
admirers,  whom  she  receives  still  with  an  easy  grace 
that  half  puzzles  you.  And  as  you  stand  by  the 
ball-room  door,  at  two  of  the  morning,  with  your 
Charlotte's  shawl  upon  your  arm,  some  little  panting 
fellow  will  confirm  the  general  opinion  by  telling 
you  that  Madame  is  a  magnificent  dancer ;  and 
Monsieur  le  Comte  will  praise  extravagantly  her 
French.  You  are  grateful  for  all  this  ;  but  you 
have  an  uncommonly  serious  way  of  expressing  your 
gratitude. 

You  think  you  ought  to  be  a  very  happy  fellow  ; 


128  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

and  yet  long  shadows  do  steal  over  your  thought, 
and  you  wonder  that  the  sight  of  your  Charlotte  in 
the  dress  you  used  to  admire  so  much  does  not 
scatter  them  to  the  winds ;  but  it  does  not.  You 
feel  coy  about  putting  your  arm  around  that  deli 
cately  robed  figure,  —  you  might  derange  the  plait- 
ings  of  her  dress.  She  is  civil  toward  you,  and  tender 
toward  your  bachelor  friends.  She  talks  with  dig 
nity,  —  adjusts  her  lace  cape,  —  and  hopes  you  will 
make  a  figure  in  the  world,  for  the  sake  of  the 
family.  Her  cheek  is  never  soiled  with  a  tear,  and 
her  smiles  are  frequent,  especially  when  you  have 
some  spruce  young  fellows  at  your  table. 

You  catch  sight  of  occasional  notes  perhaps, 
whose  superscription  you  do  not  know ;  and  some 
of  her  admirers'  attentions  become  so  pointed  and 
constant  that  your  pride  is  stirred.  It  would  be 
silly  to  show  jealousy  ;  but  you  suggest  to  your 
"dear"  —  as  you  sip  your  tea  —  the  slight  impro 
priety  of  her  action. 

Perhaps  you  fondly  long  for  some  little  scene,  as 
a  proof  of  wounded  confidence  ;  but  no  —  nothing 
of  that;  she  trusts  (calling  you  "my  dear")  that 
she  knows  how  to  sustain  the  dignity  of  her  position. 

You  are  too  sick  at  heart  for  comment,  or  for 
reply. 

And  is  this  the  intertwining  of  soul,  of  which 


LIGHTED    WITH  A   MATCH.  129 

you  had  dreamed  in  the  days  that  are  gone  ?  Is  this 
the  blending  of  sympathies  that  was  to  steal  from 
life  its  bitterness,  and  spread  over  care  and  suffering 
the  sweet  ministering  hand  of  kindness  and  of  love  ? 
Aye,  you  may  well  wander  back  to  your  Bachelor 
club,  and  make  the  hours  long  at  the  journals,  or  at 
play,  —  killing  the  flagging  lapse  of  your  life.  Talk 
in  sprightly  way  with  your  old  friends,  and  mimic 
the  joy  you  have  not,  —  or  you  will  wear  a  bad 
name  upon  your  hearth,  and  head.  Never  suffer 
your  Charlotte  to  catch  sight  of  your  moods  of  de 
spondency  ;  or  to  hear  the  sighs  which  in  your  times 
of  solitary  musings  may  break  forth  sudden  and 
heavy.  Go  on  counterfeiting  your  life  as  you  have 
begun.  It  was  a  nice  match ;  and 'you  are  a  nice 
husband. 

But  you  have  a  little  boy,  thank  God  !  toward 
whom  your  heart  runs  out  freely  ;  and  you  love  to 
catch  him  in  his  respite  from  your  well-ordered 
nursery  and  the  tasks  of  his  teachers  —  alone  ;  and 
to  spend  upon  him  a  little  of  that  depth  of  feeling 
which  through  so  many  years  has  scarce  been  stirred. 
You  play  with  him  at  his  games  ;  you  fondle  him  ; 
you  take  him  to  your  bosom. 

—  But  papa,  he  says,  see  how  you  have  tumbled 
my  collar.  What  shall  I  tell  mamma? 

Tell  her,  my  boy,  that  I  love  you ! 

9 


1 3o  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Ah !  thought  I,  (my  cigar  was  getting  dull  and 
nauseous,)  is  there  not  a  spot  in  your  heart  that 
the  gloved  hand  of  your  elegant  wife  has  never 
reached,  —  that  you  wish  it  might  reach  ? 

You  go  to  see  a  far-away  friend :  his  was  not  a 
"  nice  match "  ;  he  was  married  years  before  you, 
and  yet  the  beaming  looks  of  his  wife,  and  his  lively 
smile,  are  as  fresh  and  honest  as  they  were  years 
ago  ;  and  they  make  you  ashamed  of  your  discon 
solate  humor.  Your  stay  is  lengthened,  but  the 
home  letters  are  not  urgent  for  your  return  ;  yet 
they  are  marvellously  proper  letters,  and  rounded 
with  a  French  adieu.  You  could  have  wished  a 
little  scrawl  from  your  boy  at  the  bottom,  in  place 
of  the  postscript  which  gives  you  the  names  of  a 
new  opera  troupe  ;  and  you  hint  as  much,  —  a  very 
bold  stroke  for  you. 

Ben,  she  says,  writes  too  shamefully. 

And  at  your  return  there  is  no  great  anticipation 
of  delight ;  in  contrast  with  the  old  dreams  that  a 
pleasant  summer's  journey  has  called  up,  your 
parlor,  as  you  enter  it,  —  so  elegant,  so  still, 
so  modish,  —  seems  the  charnel-house  of  your 
heart. 

By-and-by  you  fall  into  weary  days  of  sickness  ; 
you  have  capital  nurses,  nurses  highly  recommended, 
nurses  who  never  make  mistakes,  nurses  who  have 


LIGHTED    WITH  A   MATCH.  131 

served  long  in  the  family.  But  alas  for  that  heart 
of  sympathy,  and  for  that  sweet  face  shaded  with 
your  pain,  —  like  a  soft  landscape  with  flying 
clouds,  —  you  have  none  of  them.  Your  pattern 
wife  may  corne  in,  from  time  to  time,  to  look  after 
your  nurse,  or  to  ask  after  your  sleep,  and  glide 
out,  —  her  silk  dress  rustling  upon  the  door,  like 
dead  leaves  in  the  cool  night-breezes  of  winter.  Or 
perhaps,  after  putting  this  chair  in  its  place,  and 
adjusting  to  a  more  tasteful  fold  that  curtain,  she 
will  ask  you,  with  a  tone  that  might  mean  sympathy 
if  it  were  not  a  stranger  to  you,  if  she  can  do  any 
thing  more  ? 

Thank  her,  as  kindly  as  you  can,  and  close  your 
eyes,  and  dream  ;  or  rouse  up,  to  lay  your  hand 
upon  the  head  of  your  little  boy,  —  to  drink  in 
health  and  happiness  from  his  earnest  look,  as  he 
gazes  strangely  upon  your  pale  and  shrunken  fore 
head.  Your  smile  even,  ghastly  with  long  suffering, 
disturbs  him  ;  there  is  no  interpreter  save  the  heart, 
between  you. 

Your  parched  lips  feel  strangely,  to  his  flushed, 
healthful  face ;  and  he  steps  about  on  tiptoe,  at  a 
motion  from  the  nurse,  to  look  at  all  those  rosy-col 
ored  medicines  upon  the  table  ;  and  he  takes  your 
cane  from  the  corner  and  passes  his  hand  over  the 
smooth  ivory  head  ;  and  he  runs  his  eye  along  the 


132  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

wall,  from  picture  to  picture,  till  it  rests  on  one  he 
knows,  —  a  figure  in  bridal  dress,  beautiful,  almost 
fond,  —  and  lie  forgets  himself,  and  says  aloud, 
"  There's  mamma ! " 

The  nurse  puts  her  finger  "to  her  lip  ;  you  waken 
from  your  doze  to  see  where  your  eager  boy  is  look 
ing  ;  and  your  eyes  too  take  in  as  much  as  they  can 
of  that  figure,  now  shadowy  to  your  fainting  vision 
—  doubly  shadowy  to  your  fainting  heart. 

From  day  to  day  you  sink  from  life  :  the  physician 
says  the  end  is  not  far  off ;  why  should  it  be  ?  There 
is  very  little  elastic  force  within  you  to  keep  the  end 
away.  Madame  is  called,  and  your  little  boy.  Your 
sight  is  dim,  but  they  whisper  that  she  is  beside 
your  bed ;  and  you  reach  out  your  hand  —  both 
hands.  You  fancy  you  hear  a  sob :  a  strange 
sound  !  It  seems  as  if  it  came  from  distant  years,  — 
a  confused,  broken  sigh,  sweeping  over  the  long 
stretch  of  your  life  ;  and  a  sigh  from  your  heart, 
Hot  audible,  answers  it. 

Your  trembling  fingers  clutch  the  hand  of  your 
iittle  boy,  and  you  drag  him  toward  you,  and  move 
your  lips  as  if  you  would  speak  to  him  ;  and  they 
place  his  head  near  you,  so  that  you  feel  his  fine 
hair  brushing  your  cheek.  —  My  boy,  you  must 
love  —  your  mother  ! 

Your  other  hand  feels  a  quick,  convulsive  grasp, 


LIGHTED    WITH  A  MATCH.  133 

and  something  like  a  tear  drops  upon  your  face. 
Good  God  !     Can  it  be  indeed  a  tear  ? 

You  strain  your  vision,  and  a  feeble  smile  flits 
over  your  features  as  you  seem  to  see  her  figure  — 
the  figure  of  the  painting  —  bending  over  you  ;  and 
you  feel  a  bound  at  your  heart,  —  the  same  bound 
that  you  felt  on  your  bridal  morning,  the  same 
bound  which  you  used  to  feel  in  the  spring-time  of 
your  life. 

—  Only  one  —  rich,  full  bound  of  the  heart  :  — 
that  is  all. 

My  cigar  was  out.     I  could  not  have  lit  it 

again,  if  I  would.     It  was  wholly  burned. 

"Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I,  as  I  finished  reading, 
"  may  I  smoke  now  under  your  rose-tree  ?  " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  who  had  laid  down  her  knitting  to 
hear  me,  smiled,  brushed  the  dimness  from  her  old 
eyes,  said,  "  Yes,  Isaac  ; "  and  having  scratched  the 
back  of  her  head  with  the  disengaged  needle,  re 
sumed  her  knitting. 


FOURTH  REVERIE. 


MORNfNG,  NOON,  AND  EVENING. 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING. 


~TT  is  a  spring  day  under  the  oaks,  the  loved  oak? 
-*-  of  a  once  cherished  home,  now,  alas  !  mine  no 
longer. 

I  had  sold  the  old  farm-house,  and  the  groves,  and 
the  cool  springs  where  I  had  bathed  my  head  in  the 
heats  of  summer  ;  and  with  the  first  warm  days  of 
May  they  were  to  pass  from  me  forever.  Seventy 
years  they  had  been  in  the  possession  of  my  mother's 
family  ;  for  seventy  years  they  had  borne  the  same 
name  of  proprietorship  ;  for  seventy  years  the  Lares 
of  our  country  home  —  often  neglected,  almost  for 
gotten,  yet  brightened  from  time  to  time  by  gleams 
of  renewed  worship  —  had  held  their  place  in  the 
pretty  valley  of  Elmgrove. 

And  in  this  changeful,  bustling,  American  life  of 
ours,  seventy  years  is  no  child's  holiday.  The  hurry 
of  action  and  progress  may  pass  over  it  with  quick 


138  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

step,  but  the  footprints  are  many  and  deep.  You 
surely  will  not  wonder  that  it  made  me  serious  and 
thoughtful  to  break  the  chain  of  years  that  bound 
to  my  heart  the  oaks,  the  hills,  the  springs,  the 
valley,  - —  and  such  a  valley  ! 

A  wild  stream  runs  through  it,  —  large  enough  to 
make  a  river  for  English  landscape,  —  winding  be 
tween  rich  banks,  where  in  summer-time  the  swal 
lows  build  their  nests,  and.  brood  by  myriads. 

.Tall  elms  rise  here  and  there  along  the  margin, 
and  with  their  uplifted  arms  and  leafy  spray  throw 
great  patches  of  shade  upon  the  meadow.  Old  lion- 
like  oaks,  too,  where  the  meadow-soil  hardens  into 
rolling  upland,  fasten  to  the  ground  with  their  ridgy 
roots,  and  with  their  gray,  scraggy  limbs  make  de 
licious  shelter  for  the  panting  workers,  or  for  the 
herds  of  August. 

Westward  of  the  stream  —  where  I  am  lying  —  the 
banks  roll  up  swiftly  into  sloping  hills  covered  with 
groves  of  oaks,  and  green  pasture  lands  dotted  with 
mossy  rocks.  And  farther  on,  where  some  wood  has 
been  swept  down,  some  ten  years  gone,  by  the  axe, 
the  new  growth,  heavy  with  the  luxuriant  foliage  of 
spring,  covers  wide  spots  of  the  slanting  land ;  while 
some  dead  tree  in  the  midst  still  stretches  out  its 
bare  arms  to  the  blast,  —  a  solitary  mourner  over 
the  wreck  of  its  forest  brothers. 


'MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.       139 

Eastward,  the  ridgy  bank  passes  into  wavy  mead 
ows,  upon  whose  farther  edge  you  see  the  roofs  of 
an  old  mansion,  with  tall  chimneys,  and  taller  elm- 
trees  shading  it.  Beyond,  the  hills  rise  gently,  and 
sweep  away  into  wood-crowned  heights  that  are 
blue  with  distance.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  valley 
the  stream  is  lost  to  the  eye  in  a  wide  swamp  wood, 
which  in  the  autumn-time  is  covered  with  a  scarlet 
sheet,  blotched  here  and  there  by  the  dark  crimson 
stains  of  the  ash-tops.  Farther  on,  the  hills  crowd 
close  to  the  brook,  and  come  down  with  granite 
boulders,  and  scattered  birch-trees  and  beeches,  — 
under  which,  upon  the  smoky  mornings  of  May,  I 
have  time  and  again  loitered,  and  thrown  my  line 
into  the  pools,  which  curl,  dark  and  still,  under 
their  tangled  roots. 

Below,  and  looking  southward,  through  the  open 
ings  of  the  oaks  that  shade  me,  I  see  a  broad  stretch 
of  meadow,  with  glimpses  of  the  silver  surface  of  the 
stream,  and  of  the  giant  solitary  elms,  and  of  some 
old  maple  that  has  yielded  to  the  spring-tides,  and 
now  dips  its  lower  boughs  in  the  insidious  current ; 
and  of  clumps  of  alders,  and  willow-tufts,  —  above 
which  even  now  the  black-and-white-coated  Bob-o'- 
Lincoln  is  wheeling  his  musical  flight,  while  hig 
quieter  mate  sits  swaying  on  the  topmost  twigs. 

A  quiet  road  passes  within  a  short  distance  of  me. 


140  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

and  crosses  the  brook  by  a  rude  timber  bridge  ; 
beside  the  bridge  is  a  broad,  glassy  pool,  shaded  by 
old  maples  and  hickories,  where  the  cattle  drink  each 
morning  on  their  way  to  the  hill-pastures.  A  step 
or  two  beyond  the  stream,  a  lane  branches  across 
the  meadows  to  the  mansion  with  the  tall  chimneys. 
I  can  just  remember  now  the  stout,  broad-shouldered 
old  gentleman  —  with  his  white  hat,  his  long  white 
hair,  and  his  white-headed  cane  —  who  built  the 
house,  and  who  farmed  the  whole  valley  around  me. 
He  is  gone  long  since,  and  lies  in  a  grave-yard 
looking  upon  the  sea.  The  elms  that  he  planted 
shake  their  weird  arms  over  the  mouldering  roofs  ; 
and  his  fruit-garden  shows  only  a  battered  phalanx 
of  mossy  limbs,  which  will  scarce  tempt  the  July 
marauders. 

In  the  other  direction,  upon  this  side  the  brook, 
the  road  is  lost  to  view  among  the  trees  ;  but  if  I 
were  to  follow  the  windings  upon  the  hill-side,  it 
would  bring  me  shortly  upon  the  old  home  of  my 
grandfather :  there  is  no  pleasure  in  wandering  there 
now.  The  woods,  that  sheltered  it  from  the  north 
ern  winds,  are  cut  down  ;  the  tall  cherries,  that 
made  the  yard  one  leafy  bower,  are  dead.  The  cor 
nice  is  straggling  from  the  eaves  ;  the  porch  has 
fallen  ;  the  stone  chimney  is  yawning  with  wide 
gaps.  "Within,  it  is  even  worse  :  the  floors  sway 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.       141 

upon  the  mouldering  beams  ;  the  doors  all  sag  from 
their  hinges ;  the  rude  frescos  upon  the  parlor-wall 
are  peeling  off;  all  is  going  to  decay,  and  my 
grandfather  is  buried  in  a  little  grave-yard,  by  the 
garden-wall. 

A  lane  branches  from  the  country  road  within  a 
few  yards  of  me,  and  leads  back,  along  the  edge  of 
the  meadow,  to  the  homely  cottage  which  has  been 
my  special  care.  Its  gray  porch  and  chimney  are 
thrown  into  rich  relief  by  a  grove  of  oaks  that  skirts 
the  hill  behind  it ;  and  the  doves  are  flying  uneasily 
about  the  open  doors  of  the  granary  and  barns. 
The  morning  sun  shines  pleasantly  on  the  gray 
group  of  buildings  ;  and  the  lowing  of  the  cows, 
not  yet  driven  a-field,  adds  to  the  charming  homeli 
ness  of  the  scene.  But  alas  for  the  poor  azalias, 
and  laurels,  and  vines,  that  I  had  put  out  upon  the 
little  knoll  before  the  cottage-door ;  they  are  all  of 
them  trodden  down  ;  only  one  poor  creeper  hangs 
its  loose  tresses  to  the  lattice,  all  dishevelled  and 
forlorn. 

This  by -lane,  which  opens  upon  the  farm-house, 
leaves  the  road  in  the  middle  of  a  grove  of  oaks  ; 
the  brown  gate  swings  upon  an  oak-tree,  —  the 
brown  gate  closes  upon  an  oak-tree.  There  is  a 
rustic  seat,  built  between  two  veteran  trees  that  rise 
from  a  little  hillock  near  by.  Half  a  century  ago, 


142  REVERIES  OF  A    BACHELOR. 

there  was  a  rustic  seat  on  the  same  hillock,  between 
the  same  veteran  trees.  I  can  trace  marks  of  the 
old  blotches  upon  the  bark,  and  the  scars  of  the 
nails  upon  the  scathed  trunks.  Time  and  time 
again  it  has  been  renewed.  This,  the  last,  was  built 
by  my  own  hands,  —  a  cheerful  and  a  holy  duty. 

Sixty  years  ago,  they  tell  me,  my  grandfather  used 
to  loiter  here  with  his  gun,  while  his  hounds  lay 
around  under  the  scattered  oaks.  Now  he  sleeps, 
as  I  said,  in  the  little  grave-yard  yonder,  where  I 'can 
see  one  or  two  white  tablets  glimmering  through 
the  foliage.  I  never  knew  him  ;  he  died,  as  the 
brown  stone  table  says,  aged  twenty-six.  Yesterday 
I  climbed  the  wall  that  skirts  the  yard,  and  plucked 
a  flower  from  his  tomb.  I  take  out  now  from  my 
pocket-book  that  flower,  —  a  frail,  first-blooming 
violet,  —  and  write  upon  the  slip  of  paper  into 
which  I  have  thrust  its  delicate  stem  :  "  From  my 
grandfather's  tomb  :  —  1850." 

But  other  feet  have  trod  upon  this  knoll  —  far 
more  dear  to  me.  The  old  neighbors  have  some 
times  told  me  how  they  have  seen,  forty  years  ago, 
two  rosy-faced  girls  idling  on  this  spot  under  the 
shade,  and  gathering  acorns,  and  making  oak-leaved 
garlands  for  their  foreheads.  Alas,  the  garlanda 
they  wear  now  are  not  earthly  garlands. 

Upon  that  spot,  and  upon  that  rustic  seat,  I  anj 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.       143 

lying  th4s  May  morning.  I  have  placed  my  gun 
against  a  tree ;  my  shot-pouch  I  have  hung  upon  a 
broken  limb.  I  have  thrown  my  feet  upon  the  bench, 
and  lean  against  one  of  the  gnarled  oaks  between 
which  the  seat  is  built.  My  book  and  paper  are 
beside  me,  and  my  pencil  trembles  in  my  fingers 
as  I  catch  sight  of  those  white  marble  tablets  gleam 
ing  through  the  trees,  from  the  height  above  me, 
like  beckoning  angel-faces.  If  they  were  alive !  — 
two  more  near  and  dear  friends,  in  a  world  where 
we  count  friends  by  units. 

It  is  morning  —  a  bright  spring  morning  under 
the  oaks  —  those  loved  oaks  of  a  once  cherished 
home.  Last  night  I  slept  in  the  old  house  under 
the  elms.  The  cattle  going  to  the  pasture  are  drink 
ing  in  the  pool  by  the  bridge  ;  the  boy,  who  drives 
them,  is  making  his  shrill  halloo  echo  against  the 
hills.  The  sun  has  risen  fairly  over  the  eastern 
heights,  and  shines  brightly  upon  the  meadow  land, 
and  brightly  upon  a  bend  of  the  brook  below  me. 
The  birds  —  the  bluebirds  sweetest  and  noisiest  of 
all  —  are  singing  over  me  in  the  branches.  A  wood 
pecker  is  hammering  at  a  dry  limb  aloft ;  and  Carlo 
pricks  up  his  ears  and  listens,  and  looks  at  me,  — 
then  stretches  out  his  head  upon  his  paws,  in  a 
warm  bit  of  the  sunshine,  and  sleeps. 

Morning  brings  back  to  me  the  Past ;  and  the 


144  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

past  brings  up  not  only  its  actualities,  not  only  its 
events  and  memories,  but  —  stranger  still  —  what 
might  have  been.  Every  little  circumstance,  which 
dawns  on  the  awakened  memory,  is  traced  not  only 
to  its  actual,  but  to  its  possible  issues. 

What  a  wide  world  that  makes  of  the  Past !  —  a 
great  and  gorgeous,  a  rich  and  solemn  world !  Your 
fancy  fills  it  up  artist-like  ;  the  darkness  is  mellowed 
off  into  soft  shades ;  the  bright  spots  are  veiled  in 
the  sweet  atmosphere  of  distance  ;  and  fancy  and 
memory  together  make  up  a  rich  dream-land  of  the 
past. 

And  now,  as  I  go  on  to  trace  upon  paper  some  of 
the  visions  that  float  across  that  dream-land  of  the 
Morning,  I  will  not  —  I  cannot  say,  how  much 
comes  fancy-wise,  and  how  much  from  this  vaulting 
memory.  Of  this  the  kind  reader  shall  himself  be 
judge. 


The  Morning. 

TTSABEL  and  I  —  she  is  my  cousin,  and  is  seven 
-•-  years  old,  and  I  am  ten  —  are  sitting  together 
on  the  bank  of  the  stream,  under  an  oak-tree  that 
leans  half-way  over  to  the  water.  I  am  much  stronger 
than  she,  and  taller  by  a  head.  I  hold  in  my  hands 
a  little  alder-rod,  with  which  I  am  fishing  for  the 
roach  and  minnows  that  play  in  the  pool  below  us. 

She  is  watching  the  cork  tossing  on  the  water,  or 
playing  with  the  captured  fish  that  lie  upon  the 
bank.  She  has  auburn  ringlets  that  fall  down  upon 
her  shoulders  ;  and  her  straw  hat  lies  back  upon 
them,  held  only  by  the  strip  of  ribbon  that  passes 
under  her  chin.  But  the  sun  does  not  shine  upon 
her  head,  for  the  oak-tree  above  us  is  full  of  leaves  ; 
and  only  here  and  there  a  dimple  of  the  sunlight 
plays  upon  the  pool  where  I  am  fishing. 


146  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Her  eye  is  hazel,  and  bright ;  and  now  and  then 
she  turns  it  on  me  with  a  look  of  girlish  curiosity, 
as  I  lilt  up  my  rod,  —  and  again  in  playful  menace, 
as  she  grasps  in  her  little  fingers  one  of  the  dead  fish, 
and  threatens  to  throw  it  back  upon  the  stream. 
Her  little  feet  hang  over  the  edge  of  the  bank, 
and  from  time  to  time  she  reaches  down  to  dip  her 
toe  in  the  water,  and  laughs  a  girlish  laugh  of 
defiance,  as  I  scold  her  for  frightening  away  the 
fishes. 

"  Bella,"  I  say,  "  what  if  you  should  tumble  in  the 
river?" 

"But  I  won't." 

"Yes,  but  if  you  should?" 

"  Why  then  you  would  pull  me  out." 

"But  if  I  would  n't  pull  you  out  ?  " 

"  But  I  know  you  would  ;  would  n't  you,  Paul  ?  " 

"  What  makes  you  think  so,  Bella  ?  " 

"  Because  you  love  Bella." 

"How  do  you  know  I  love  Bella  ?" 

"  Because  once  you  told  me  so  ;  and  because  you 
pick  flowers  for  me  that  I  cannot  reach  ;  and  because 
you  let  me  take  your  rod  when  you  have  a  fish 
upon  it." 

"But  that's  no  reason,  Bella." 

"Then  what  is,  Paul?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Bella." 


THE  MORNING.  147 

A  little  fish  has  been  nibbling  for  a  long  time  at 
the  bait ;  the  cork  has  been  bobbing  up  and  down  ; 
and  now  he  is  fairly  hooked,  and  pulls  away  toward 
the  bank,  and  you  cannot  see  the  cork. 

—  "  Here,  Bella,  quick  ! "  —  and  she  springs 
eagerly  to  clasp  her  little  hands  around  the  rod. 
But  the  fish  has  dragged  it  away  on  the  other  side 
of  me  ;  and  as  she  reaches  farther  and  farther,  she 
slips,  cries  "  Oh  Paul !  "  —  and  falls  into  the  water. 

The  stream  they  told  us,  when  we  came,  was  over 
a  man's  head :  it  is  surely  over  little  Isabel's.  I  fling 
down  the  rod,  and  thrusting  one  hand  into  the  roots 
that  support  the  overhanging  bank,  I  grasp  at  her 
hat  as  she  comes  up  ;  but  the  ribbons  give  way,  and 
I  see  the  terribly  earnest  look  upon  her  face  as  she 
goes  down  again.  Oh,  my  mother!  thought  I,  if 
you  were  only  here  ! 

But  she  rises  again ;  this  time  I  thrust  my  hand 
into  her  dress,  and  struggling  hard  keep  her  at  the 
top,  until  I  can  place  my  foot  down  upon  a  project 
ing  root ;  and  sa  bracing  myself,  I  drag  her  to  the 
bank,  and  having  climbed  up,  take  hold  of  her  belt 
firmly  with  both  hands,  and  drag  her  out ;  and  poor 
Isabel,  choked,  chilled,  and  wet,  is  lying  upon  the 
grass. 

I  commence  crying  aloud.  The  workmen  in  the 
fields  hear  me,  and  come  down.  One  takes  Isabel  in 


148  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

his  arms,  and  I  follow  on  foot  to  our  uncle's  home 
upon  the  hill. 

—  "Oh,  my  children  ! "  says  rny  mother  ;  and  she 
takes  Isabel  in  her  arms  ;  and  presently,  with  dry 
clothes,  and  blazing  wood-fire,  little  Bella  smiles 
again.  I  am  at.  my  mother's  knee. 

"I  told  you  so,  Paul,"  says  Isabel. — "Aunty, 
does  n't  Paul  love  me  ?  " 

"I  hope  so,  Bella,"  said  my  mother. 

"  I  know  so,"  said  I;  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

And  how  did  I  know  it  ?  The  boy  does  not  ask, 
the  man  does.  Ah,  the  freshness,  the  honesty,  the 
vigor  of  a  boy's  heart !  —  how  the  memory  of  it  re 
freshes  like  the  first  gush  of  spring,  or  the  break  of 
an  April  shower. 

But  boyhood  has  its  Pride,  as  well  as  its  Loves. 

My  uncle  is  a  tall,  hard-faced  man.  I  fear  him, 
when  he  calls  me  "  child " ;  I  love  him,  when  he 
calls  me  "  Paul."  He  is  almost  always  busy  with 
his  books  ;  and  when  I  steal  in  at  the  library-door, 
as  I  sometimes  do,  with  a  string  of  fish,  or  a  heaping 
basket  of  nuts,  to  show  to  him,  he  looks  for  a  mo 
ment  curiously  at  them,  sometimes  takes  them  in  his 
fingers,  gives  them  back  to  me,  and  turns  over  the 
leaves  of  his  book.  You  are  afraid  to  ask  him,  if 
you  have  not  worked  bravely ;  yet  you  want  to  do  so. 

You  sidle  out  softly,  and  go  to  your  mother.   She 


THE  MORNING.  149 

scarce  looks  at  your  little  stores  ;  but  she  draws  you 
to  her  with  her  arm,  and  prints  a  kiss  upon  your 
forehead.  Now  your  tongue  is  unloosed  ;  that  kiss 
and  that  action  have  done  it ;  you  will  tell  what  capi 
tal  luck  you  have  had,  and  you  hold  up  your  tempt 
ing  trophies  ;  —  "  Are  they  not  great,  mother  ?  "  But 
she  is  looking  in  your  face,  and  not  at  your  prize. 

"  Take  them,  mother ; "  and  you  lay  the  basket 
upon  her  lap. 

"  Thank  you,  Paul,  I  do  not  wish  them  ;  but  you 
must  give  some  to  Bella." 

And  away  you  go  to  find  laughing,  playful  cousin 
Isabel.  And  we  sit  down  together  on  the  grass,  and 
I  pour  out  my  stores  between  us.  "  You  shall  take, 
Bella,  what  you  wish  in  your  apron,  and  then,  when 
study- hours  are  over,  we  will  have  such  a  time  down 
by  the  big  rock  in  the  meadow." 

"  But  I  do  not  know  if  papa  will  let  me,"  says 
Isabel. 

"Bella,"  I  say,  "  do  you  love  your  papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Bella  ;  "  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  so  cold ;  he  does  not  kiss  you, 
Bella,  so  often  as  my  mother  does  ;  and  besides, 
when  he  forbids  your  going  away,  he  does  not  say, 
as  mother  does,  'My  little  girl  will  be  tired,  she 
had  better  not  go  ; '  but  he  says  only,  '  Isabel  must 
not  go.'  I  wonder  what  makes  him  talk  so?" 


150  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

"  Why,  Paul,  he  is  a  man,  and  does  n't  —  at  any 
rate,  I  love  him,  Paul.  Besides,  my  mother  is  sick, 
you  know." 

"  But  Isabel,  my  mother  will  be  your  mother  too. 
Come,  Bella,  we  will  go  ask  her  if  we  may  go." 

And  there  I  am,  the  happiest  of  boys,  pleading 
with  the  kindest  of  mothers.  And  the  young  heart 
leans  into  that  mother's  heart ;  —  none  of  the  void 
now  that  will  overtake  it  like  an  opening  Korah  gulf 
in  the  years  that  are  to  come.  It  is  joyous,  full,  and 
running  over. 

"  You  may  go,"  she  says,  "  if  your  uncle  is  will- 
ing." 

"  But  mamma,  I  am  afraid  to  ask  him  ;  I  do  not 
believe  he  loves  me." 

"  Don't  say  so,  Paul ; "  and  she  draws  you  to  her 
side,  as  if  she  would  supply  by  her  own  love  the 
lacking  love  of  a  universe. 

"  Go  with  your  cousin  Isabel,  and  ask  him  kindly  ; 
and  if  he  says  No,  make  no  reply." 

And  with  courage  we  go  hand-in-hand,  and  steal 
in  at  the  library-door.  There  he  sits  —  I  seem  to 
see  him  now  —  in  the  old  wainscoted  room  covered 
over  with  books  and  pictures  ;  and  he  wears  his 
heavy-rimmed  spectacles,  and  is  poring  over  some 
big  volume  full  of  hard  words  that  are  not  in  any 
spelling-book.  We  step  up  softly,  and  Isabel  lays 


THE  MORNING.  151 

her  little  hand  upon  his  arm  ;  and  he  turns  and  says, 
"  Well,  my 'little  daughter?" 

I  ask  if  we  may  go  down  to  the  big  rock  in  the 
meadow  ? 

He  looks  at  Isabel,  and  says  he  is  afraid,  —  "  we 
cannot  go." 

"  But  why,  uncle  ?  It  is  only  a  little  way,  and  we 
will  be  very  careful." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  children.  Do  not  say  any  more. 
You  can  have  the  pony,  and  Tray,  and  play  at 
home." 

"But,  uncle"  — 

"You  need  say  no  more,  my  child." 

I  pinch  the  hand  of  little  Isabel,  and  look  in  her 
eye,  my  own  half -filling  with  tears.  I  feel  that  my 
forehead  is  flushed,  and  I  hide  it  behind  Bella's 
tresses,  whispering  to  her  at  the  same  time,  "  Let 
us  go." 

"  What,  sir,"  says  my  uncle,  mistaking  my  mean 
ing,  "  do  you  persuade  her  to  disobey  ?  " 

Now  I  am  angry,  and  say  blindly,  "  No,  sir,  I 
did  n't ! "  And  then  my  rising  pride  will  not  let  me 
explain. 

Bella  cries ;  and  I  shrink  out,  and  am  not  easy 
until  I  have  run  to  bury  my  head  in  my  mother's 
bosom.  Alas  !  pride  cannot  always  find  such  covert. 
There  will  be  times  when  it  will  harass  you  strange 


152  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

ly;  when  it  will  peril  friendships  —  will  sever  old 
standing  intimacy ;  and  then  —  no  resource  but  to 
feed  on  its  own  bitterness.  Hateful  pride,  —  to  be 
conquered  as  a  man  would  conquer  an  enemy,  or  it 
will  make  whirlpools  in  the  current  of  your  affec 
tions,  —  nay,  turn  the  whole  tide  of  the  heart  into 
rough  and  unaccustomed  channels. 

But  boyhood  has  its  Grief  too,  apart  from  Pride. 

You  love  the  old  dog  Tray  ;  and  Bella  loves  him 
as  well  as  you.  He  is  a  noble  old  fellow,  with 
shaggy  hair  and  long  ears,  and  big  paws  that  he 
will  put  up  into  your  hand,  if  you  ask  him.  And  he 
never  gets  angry  when  you  play  with  him,  and  tum 
ble  him  over  in  the  long  grass,  and  pull  his  silken 
ears.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  he  will  open  his 
mouth  as  if  he  would  bite,  but  when  he  gets  your 
hand  fairly  in  his  jaws,  he  will  scarce  leave  the  print 
of  his  teeth  upon  it.  He  will  swim  too,  bravely, 
and  bring  ashore  all  the  sticks  you  throw  upon  the 
water ;  and  when  you  fling  a  stone  to  tease  him,  he 
swims  round  and  round,  and  whines,  and  looks  sorry 
that  he  cannot  find  it. 

He  will  carry  a  heaping  basket  full  of  nuts,  too, 
in  his  mouth,  and  never  spill  one  of  them  ;  and 
when  you  come  out  to  your  uncle's  home  in  the 
spring,  after  staying  a  whole  winter  in  the  town, 
he  knows  you  —  old  Tray  does !  And  he  leaps  upon 


THE  MORNING.  153 

you,  and  lays  his  paws  on  your  shoulder,  and  licks 
your  face,  and  is  almost  as  glad  to  see  you  as  cousin 
Bella  herself.  And  when  you  put  Bella  on  his  back 
for  a  ride,  he  only  pretends  to  bite  her  little  feet ; 
but  he  would  n't  do  it  for  the  world.  Aye,  Tray  is 
a  noble  old  dog. 

But  one  summer  the  farmers  say  that  some  of 
their  sheep  are  killed,  and  that  the  dogs  have  wor 
ried  them  ;  and  one  of  them  conies  to  talk  with  my 
uncle  about  it. 

But  Tray  never  worried  sheep  ;  you  know  he 
never  did ;  and  so  does  nurse  ;  and  so  does  Bella  ; 
for  in  the  spring  she  had  a  pet  lamb,  and  Tray  never 
worried  little  Fidele. 

And  one  or  two  of  the  dogs  that  belong  to  the 
neighbors  are  shot ;  though  nobody  knows  who  shot 
them  ;  and  you  have  great  fears  about  poor  Tray ; 
and  try  to  keep  him  at  home,  and  fondle  him  more 
than  ever.  But  Tray  will  sometimes  wander  off; 
and  finally,  one  afternoon  he  conies  back  whining 
piteously,  and  with  his  shoulder  bloody. 

Little  Bella  cries  aloud ;  and  you  almost  cry,  as 
nurse  dresses  the  wound  ;  and  poor  old  Tray  howls 
grievously.  You  pat  his  head,  and  Bella  pats  him  ; 
and  you  sit  down  together  by  him  on  the  floor  of 
the  porch,  and  bring  a  rug  for  him  to  lie  upon,  and 
try  and  tempt  him  with  a  little  milk  ;  and  Bella 


154  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

brings  a  piece  of  cake  for  him,  —  but  he  will  eat 
nothing.  You  sit  up  till  very  late,  long  after  Bella 
has  gone  to  bed,  patting  his  head,  and  wishing  you 
could  do  something  for  poor  Tray  ;  but  he  only  licks 
your  hand,  and  whines  more  piteously  than  ever. 

In  the  morning  you  dress  early,  and  hurry  down 
stairs  ;  but  Tray  is  not  lying  on  the  rug  ;  and .  you 
run  through  the  house  to  find  him,  and  whistle  and 
call  —  Tray  !  Tray  !  At  length  you  sco  him  lying  in 
his  old  place  out  by  the  cherry-tree,  and  you  run  to 
him,  —  but  he  does  not  start ;  and  you  lean  down 
to  pat  him,  — but  he  is  cold,  and  the  dew  is  wet 
upon  him.  Poor  Tray  is  dead. 

You  take  his  head  upon  your  knees,  and  pat  again 
those  glossy  ears  ;  but  you  cannot  bring  him  to  life. 
And  Bella  comes  and  mourns  with  you.  You  can 
hardly  bear  to  have  him  put  in  the  ground ;  but 
uncle  says  he  must  be  buried.  So  one  of  the  work 
men  digs  a  grave  under  the  cherry-tree  where  he 
died,  —  a  deep  grave  ;  and  they  round  it  over  with 
earth,  and  smooth  the  sods  upon  it ;  —  even  now  I 
can  trace  Tray's  grave. 

You  and  Bella  together  put  up  a  little  slab  for  a 
tombstone  ;  and  she  hangs  flowers  upon  it,  and  ties 
them  there  with  a  bit  of  ribbon.  You  can  scarce 
play  all  that  day ;  and  afterward,  many  weeks  later, 
when  you  are  rambling  over  the  fields,  or  lingering 


THE  MORNING.  155 

by  the  brook,  throwing  off  sticks  into  the  eddies, 
you  think  of  old  Tray's  shaggy  coat,  and  of  his  big 
paw,  and  of  his  honest  eye  ;  and  the  memory  of 
your  boyish  grief  comes  upon  you,  and  you  say, 
with  a  sigh,  "  Poor  Tray  ! "  And  Bella  too,  in  her 
sad,  sweet  tones,  says,  "  Poor  old  Tray,  he  is  dead  ! " 

School-Days. 

THE  morning  was  cloudy  and  threatened  rain ; 
besides,  it  was  autumn  weather,  and  the  winds  were 
getting  harsh,  and  rustling  among  the  tree-tops 
that  shaded  the  house,  most  dismally.  I  did  not 
dare  to  listen.  If  indeed  I  were  to  stay  by  the 
bright  fires  of  home,  and  gather  the  nuts  as  they 
fell,  and  pile  up  the  falling  leaves  to  make  great 
bonfires  with  Ben  and  the  rest  of  the  boys,  I  should 
have  liked  to  listen,  and  would  have  braved  the  dis 
mal  morning  with  the  cheerfullest  of  them  all.  For 
it  would  have  been  a  capital  time  to  light  a  fire  in 
the  little  oven  we  had  built  under  the  wall ;  it  would 
have  been  so  pleasant  to  warm  our  fingers  at  it,  and 
to  roast  the  great  russets  on  the  flat  stones  that 
made  the  top. 

But  this  was  not  in  store  for  me.  I  had  bid  the 
town -boys  good-bye  the  day  before  ;  my  trunk  was 
all  packed  ;  I  was  to  go  away  —  to  school.  The  little 


156  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

oven  would  go  to  ruin  —  I  knew  it  would.  I  was  to 
leave  my  home.  I  was  to  bid  my  mother  good-bye, 
and  Lilly,  and  Isabel,  and  all  the  rest ;  and  was  to 
go  away  from  them  so  far  that  I  should  only  know 
what  they  were  all  doing  —  in  letters.  And  then 
to  have  the  clouds  come  over  on  that  morning, 
and  the  winds  sigh  so  dismally  ;  it  was  too  bad,  I 
thought. 

It  comes  back  to  me,  as  I  lie  here  this  bright 
spring  morning,  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday.  I  re 
member  that  the  pigeons  skulked  under  the  eaves 
of  the  carriage- house,  and  did  not  sit,  as  they  used 
to  do  in  summer,  upon  the  ridge  ;  and  the  chickena 
huddled  together  about  the  stable -doors  as  if  they 
were  afraid  of  the  cold  autumn.  And  in  the  garden 
the  white  hollyhocks  stood  shivering,  and  bowed  to 
the  wind,  as  if  their  time  had  come.  The  yellow 
muskmelons  showed  plain  among  the  frost-bitten 
vines,  and  looked  cold  and  uncomfortable. 

—  Then  they  were  all  so  kind  iu-doors.  The 
cook  made  such  nice  things  for  my  breakfast,  be 
cause  little  master  was  going  ;  Lilly  would  give  me 
her  seat  by  the  fire,  and  would  put  her  lump  of  sugar 
in  my  cup  ;  and  my  mother  looked  so  smiling  and 
so  tenderly,  that  I  thought  I  loved  her  more  than 
I  ever  did  before.  Little  Ben  was  so  gay  too  ;  and 
wanted  me  to  take  his  jackknife,  if  I  wished  it,  — 


THE  MORNING.  157 

though  he  knew  that  I  had  a  brand-new  one  in  mj 
trunk.  The  old  nurse  slipped  a  little  purse  into  my 
hand,  tied  up  with  a  green  ribbon,  —  with  money  in 
it,  —  and  told  me  not  to  show  it  to  Ben  or  Lilly. 

And  cousin  Isabel,  who  was  there  on  a  visit,  would 
come  to  stand  by  my  chair  when  my  mother  was 
talking  to  me,  and  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  look 
up  into  my  face  ;  but  she  did  not  say  a  word.  I 
thought  it  was  very  odd  ;  and  yet  it  did  not  seem 
odd  to  me  that  I  could  say  nothing  to  her.  I  dare 
say  we  felt  alike. 

At  length  Ben  came  running  in,  and  said  the 
coach  had  come  ;  and  there,  sure  enough,  out  of 
the  window  we  saw  it,  —  a  bright  yellow  coach,  with 
four  white  horses,  and  bandboxes  all  over  the  top, 
with  a  great  pile  of  trunks  behind.  Ben  said  it  was 
a  grand  coach,  and  that  he  should  like  a  ride  in  it ; 
and  the  old  nurse  came  to  the  door,  and  said  I 
should  have  a  capital  time  ;  but  somehow  I  doubted 
if  the  nurse  was  talking  honestly.  I  believe  she 
gave  me  an  honest  kiss  though —  and  such  a  hug  ! 

But  it  was  nothing  to  my  mother's.  Tom  told  me 
to  be  a  man,  and  study  like  a  Trojan  ;  but  I  was  not 
thinking  about  study  then.  There  was  a  tall  boy  in 
the  coach,  and  I  was  ashamed  to  have  him  see  me 
cry  ;  so  I  did  n't  at  first.  But  I  remember,  as  I 
looked  back  and  saw  little  Isabel  run  out  into  the 


158  REVERIES   OF  'A    BACHELOR. 

middle  of  the  street  to  see  the  coach  go  off,  and  the 
curls  floating  behind  her  as  the  wind  freshened,  I 
felt  my  heart  leaping  into  my  throat,  and  the  water 
coming  into  my  eyes,  —  and  how  just  then  I  caught 
sight  of  the  tall  boy  glancing  at  me,  —  and  how  I 
tried  to  turn  it  off  by  looking  to  see  if  I  could  button 
up  my  great-coat  a  great  deal  lower  down  than  the 
button-holes  went. 

But  it  was  of  no  use.  I  put  my  head  out  of  the 
coach- window,  and  looked  back  as  the  little  figure 
of  Isabel  faded,  and  then  the  house,  and  the  trees  ; 
and  the  tears  did  come  ;  and  I  smuggled  my  hand 
kerchief  outside  without  turning,  so  that  I  could 
wipe  my  eyes  before  the  tall  boy  should  see  me. 
They  say  that  these  shadows  of  morning  fade  as  the 
sun  brightens  into  noonday  ;  but  they  are  very  dark 
shadows  for  all  that. 

Let  the  father  or  the  mother  think  long  before 
they  send  away  their  boy,  —  before  they  break  the 
home  ties  that  make  a  web  of  infinite  fineness  and 
soft  silken  meshes  around  his  heart,  and  toss  him 
aloof  into  the  boy- world,  where  he  must  struggle  up, 
amid  bickerings  and  quarrels,  into  his  age  of  youth. 
There  are  boys  indeed  with  little  fineness  in  the  text 
ure  of  their  hearts,  and  with  little  delicacy  of  soul, 
to  whom  the  school  in  a  distant  village  is  but  a  va 
cation  from  home,  and  with  whom  a  return  revives  all 


THE  MORNING.  159 

tliose  grosser  affections  which  alone  existed  before  ; 
just  as  there  are  plants  which  will  bear  all  exposure 
without  the  wilting  of  a  leaf,  and  will  return  to  the 
hot-house  life  as  strong  and  as  hopeful  as  ever.  But 
there  are  others,  to  whom  the  severance  from  the 
prattle  of  sisters,  the  indulgent  fondness  of  a  mother, 
and  the  unseen  influences  of  the  home  altar,  gives  a 
shock  that  lasts  forever  ;  it  is  wrenching  with  cruel 
hand  what  will  bear  but  little  roughness  ;  and  the 
sobs  with  which  the  adieus  are  said  are  sobs  that 
may  come  back  in  the  after-years  strong  and  steady 
and  terrible. 

God  have  mercy  on  the  boy  who  learns  to  sob 
early  !  Condemn  it  as  sentiment,  if  you  will ;  talk 
as  you  will  of  the  fearlessness  and  strength  of  the 
boy's  heart,  —  yet  there  belong  to  many  tenderly 
strung  chords  of  affection  which  give  forth  low  and 
gentle  music  that  consoles  and  ripens  the  ear  for  all 
the  harmonies  of  life.  These  chords  a  little  rude 
and  unnatural  tension  will  break,  and  break  for 
ever.  Watch  your  boy  then,  if  so  be  he  will  bear  the 
strain  ;  try  his  nature  if  it  be  rude  or  delicate  ;  and 
if  delicate,  in  God's  name,  do  not,  as  you  value  your 
peace  and  his,  breed  a  harsh  youth -spirit  in  him  that 
shall  take  pride  in  subjugating  and  forgetting  the 
delicacy  and  richness  of  his  finer  affections. 

1  see  now,  looking  into  the  past,  the  troops 


160  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

of  boys  who  were  scattered  in  the  great  play-ground 
as  the  coach  drove  up  at  night.  The  school  was  in 
a  tall,  stately  building,  with  a  high  cupola  on  the 
top,  where  I  thought  I  would  like  to  go.  The 
schoolmaster,  they  told  me  at  home,  was  kind  ;  he 
said  he  hoped  I  would  be  a  good  boy,  and  patted  me 
on  the  head  ;  but  he  did  not  pat  me  as  my  mother 
used  to  do.  Then  there  was  a  woman  whom  they 
called  the  Matron,  who  had  a  great  many  ribbons  in 
her  cap,  and  who  shook  my  hand,  —  but  so  stiffly, 
that  I  did  n't  dare  to  look  up  in  her  face. 

One  boy  took  me  down  to  see  the  school-room, 
which  was  in  the  basement,  and  the  walls  were  all 
mouldy,  I  remember ;  and  when  we  passed  a  certain 
door,  he  said  —  "  there  was  the  dungeon  ; "  —  how 
I  felt !  I  hated  that  boy  ;  but  I  believe  he  is  dead 
now.  Then  the  matron  took  me  up  to  my  room,. — 
a  little  corner-room,  with  two  beds  and  two  windows, 
and  a  red  table,  and  closet ;  and  my  chum  was 
about  my  size,  and  wore  a  queer  roundabout  jacket 
with  big  bell  buttons  ;  and  he  called  the  schoolmas 
ter  "  Old  Crikey,"  and  kept  me  awake  half  the  night, 
telling  me  how  he  whipped  the  scholars,  and  how 
they  played  tricks  upon  him.  I  thought  my  chum 
was  a  very  uncommon  boy. 

For  a  day  or  two  the  lessons  were  easy,  and  it 
was  sport  to  play  with  so  many  "fellows."  But 


THE  MORNING.  161 

soon  I  began  to  feel  lonely  at  night,  after  I  had  gone 
to  bed.  I  used  to  wish  I  could  have  my  mother 
come  and  kiss  me  ;  after  school,  too,  I  wished  I 
could  step  in  and  tell  Isabel  how  bravely  I  had 
learned  my  lessons.  When  I  told  my  chum  this, 
he  laughed  at  me,  and  said  that  was  no  place  for 
"  homesick,  white-livered  chaps."  I  wondered  if 
my  chum  had  any  mother. 

We  had  spending-money  once  a  week,  with  which 
we  used  to  go  down  to  the  village  store,  and  club 
our  funds  together  to  make  great  pitchers  of  lemon 
ade.  Some  boys  would  have  money  besides,  though 
it  was  against  the  rules  ;  and  one,  I  recollect,  showed 
us  a  five-dollar  bill  in  his  wallet,  and  \ve  all  thought 
he  must  be  very  rich. 

We  marched  in  procession  to  the  village  church 
on  Sundays.  There  were  two  long  benches  in  the 
galleries,  reaching  down  the  sides  of  the  meeting 
house,  and  on  these  we  sat.  At  the  first  I  was 
among  the  smallest  boys,  and  took  a  place  close  to 
the  wall  against  the  pulpit ;  but  afterward,  as  I  grew 
bigger,  I  was  promoted  to  the  lower  end  of  the  first 
bench.  This  I  never  liked,  because  it  was  close  by 
one  of  the  teachers,  and  because  it  brought  me  next 
to  some  countrywomen  who  wore  stiff  bonnets,  and 
ate  fennel,  and  sung  with  the  choir.  But  there  was 
a  little  black-eyed  girl,  who  sat  over  behind  the 


1 62  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

choir,  that  I  thought  handsome.  I  used  to  look  ai 
her  very  often,  but  was  careful  she  should  never 
catch  my  eye. 

There  was  another  down  below,  in  a  corner- 
pew,  who  was  pretty,  and  who  wore  a  hat  in  the 
winter  trimmed  with  fur.  Half  the  boys  in  the 
school  said  they  would  marry  her  some  day  or 
other.  One's  name  was  Jane,  and  that  of  the  other 
Sophia  ;  which  we  thought  pretty  names,  and  cut 
them  on  the  ice  in  skating-time.  But  I  did  n't  think 
either  of  them  so  pretty  as  Isabel. 

Once  a  teacher  whipped  me.  I  bore  it  bravely 
in  the  school ;  but  afterward,  at  night,  when  my 
chum  was  asleep,  I  sighed  bitterly  as  I  thought  of 
Isabel,  and  Ben,  and  my  mother,  and  how  much 
they  loved  me  ;  and  laying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I 
sobbed  myself  to  sleep.  In  the  morning  I  was  calm 
enough :  it  was  another  of  the  heart-ties  broken, 
though  I  did  not  know  it  then.  It  lessened  the 
old  attachment  to  home,  because  that  home  could 
neither  protect  me  nor  soothe  me  with  its  sympa 
thies.  Memory,  indeed,  freshened  and  grew  strong, 
but  strong  in  bitterness  and  in  regrets.  The  boy 
whose  love  you  cannot  feed  by  daily  nourishment 
will  find  pride,  self-indulgence,  and  an  iron  purpose 
coming  in  to  furnish  other  supply  for  the  soul  that 
is  in  him.  If  he  cannot  shoot  his  branches  into  the 


THE  MORNING.  163 

sunshine,  he  will  become  acclimated  to  the  shadow, 
and  indifferent  to  such  stray  gleams  of  sunshine  as 
his  fortune  may  vouchsafe. 

Hostilities  would  sometimes  threaten  between  the 
school  and  the  village  boys  ;  but  they  usually  passed 
off  with  such  loud  and  harmless  explosions  as  belong 
to  the  wars  of  our  small  politicians.  The  village 
champions  were  a  hatter's  apprentice  and  a  thick-set 
fellow  who  worked  in  a  tannery.  We  prided  our 
selves  especially  on  one  stout  boy,  who  wore  a 
sailor's  monkey-jacket.  I  cannot  but  think  how 
jaunty  that  stout  boy  looked  in  that  jacket,  and 
what  an  Ajax  cast  there  was  to  his  countenance  !  It 
certainly  did  occur  to  me  to  compare  him  with  Wil 
liam  Wallace,  (Miss  Porter's  William  Wallace,)  and 
I  thought  how  I  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  a 
tussle  between  them.  Of  course  we,  who  were  small 
boys,  limited  ourselves  to  indignant  remarks,  and 
thought  "we  should  like  to  see  them  do  it";  and 
prepared  clubs  from  the  wood-shed,  after  a  model 
suggested  by  a  New  York  boy  who  had  seen  the 
clubs  of  the  policemen. 

There  was  one  scholar  —  poor  Leslie  —  who  had 
friends  in  some  foreign  country,  and  who  occasion 
ally  received  letters  bearing  a  foreign  postmark. 
What  an  extraordinary  boy  that  was  ;  what  astonish 
ing  letters  ;  what  extraordinary  parents !  I  won* 


1 64  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

dered  if  I  should  ever  receive  a  letter  from  "  foreign 
parts."  I  wondered  if  I  should  ever  write  one ;  — 
but  this  was  too  much,  too  absurd.  As  if  I,  Paul, 
wearing  a  blue  jacket  with  gilt  buttons,  and  number- 
four  boots,  should  ever  visit  those  countries  spoken 
of  in  the  geographies  and  by  learned  travellers !  No, 
no ;  this  was  too  extravagant ;  but  I  knew  what  I 
would  do  if  I  lived  to  come  of  age,  —  and  I  vowed 
that  I  would  —  I  would  go  to  New  York. 

Number  Seven  was  the  hospital,  and  forbidden 
ground  ;  we  had  all  of  us  a  sort  of  horror  of  Num 
ber  Seven.  A  boy  died  there  once,  and  ah,  how  he 
moaned ;  and  what  a  time  there  was  when  the 
father  came ! 

A  scholar  by  the  name  of  Tom  Belton,  who  wore 
linsey  gray,  made  a  dam  across  a  little  brook  by  the 
school,  and  whittled  out  a  saw-mill  that  actually 
sawed :  he  had  genius.  I  expected  to  see  him  be 
fore  now  at  the  head  of  American  mechanics,  but  I 
learn  with  pain  that  he  is  keeping  a  grocery-store. 

At  the  close  of  all  the  terms  we  had  exhibitions, 
to  which  all  the  townspeople  came,  and  among  them 
the  black-eyed  Jane,  and  the  pretty  Sophia  with  fur 
around  her  hat.  My  great  triumph  was  when  I  had 
the  part  of  one  of  Pizarro's  chieftains,  the  evening 
before  I  left  the  school  How  I  did  look !  I  had  a 
moustache  put  on  with  burnt  cork,  and  whiskers 


THE  MORNING.  165 

very  bushy  indeed  ;  and  I  had  the  militia  coat  of  an 
ensign  in  the  town  company,  with  the  skirts  pinned 
up  ;  and  a  short  sword,  very  dull  and  crooked,  which 
belonged  to  an  old  gentleman  who  was  said  to  have 
got  it  from  some  privateer's-man,  who  was  said  to 
have  taken  it  from  some  great  British  admiral  in  the 
old  wars  ;  and  the  way  I  carried  that  sword  upon 
the  platform,  and  the  way  I  jerked  it  out  when  it 
came  to  my  turn  to  say,  "  Battle  !  battle !  —  then 
death  to  the  armed,  and  chains  for  the  defence 
less  !  "  —  was  tremendous. 

The  morning  after,  in  our  dramatic  hats,  —  black 
felt,  with  turkey  feathers,  —  we  took  our  place  upon 
the  top  of  the  coach  to  leave  the  school.  The  head 
master,  in  green  spectacles,  came  out  to  shake  hands 
with  us,  —  a  very  awful  shaking  of  hands.  Poor 
gentleman !  he  is  in  his  grave  now. 

We  gave  three  loud  hurrahs  "for  the  old  school," 
as  the  coach  started ;  and  upon  the  top  of  the  hill 
that  overlooks  the  village  we  gave  another  round, 
and  still  another  for  the  crabbed  old  fellow  whose 
apples  we  had  so  often  stolen.  I  wonder  if  old 
Bulkeley  is  living  yet  ? 

As  we  got  on  under  the  pine-trees,  I  recalled  the 
image  of  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and  of  the  other  little 
girl  in  the  corner-pew,  and  thought  how  I  would 
come  back  after  the  college-days  were  over,  —  a 


1 66  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

man,  with  a  beaver  hat  and  a  cane,  and  with  a 
splendid  barouche  ;  and  how  I  would  take  the  best 
chamber  at  the  inn,  and  astonish  the  old  schoolmas 
ter  by  giving  him  a  familiar  tap  on  the  shoulder  ; 
and  how  I  would  be  the  admiration  and  the  wonder 
of  the  pretty  girl  in  the  fur-trimmed  hat.  Alas ! 
how  our  thoughts  outrun  our  deeds. 

For  long  —  long  years  I  saw  no  more  of  my  old 
school ;  and  when  at  length  the  new  view  came, 
great  changes,  crashing  like  tornadoes,  had  swept 
over  my  path.  I  thought  no  more  of  startling  the 
villagers  or  astonishing  the  black-eyed  girl.  No, 
no  :  I  was  content  to  slip  quietly  through  the  little 
town,  with  only  a  tear  or  two,  as  I  recalled  the  dead 
ones  and  mused  upon  the  emptiness  of  life. 

The  Sea. 

As  I  look  back,  boyhood  with  its  griefs  and  cares 
vanishes  into  the  proud  stateliness  of  youth.  The 
ambition  and  the  rivalries  of  the  college-life,  its  first 
boastful  importance  as  knowledge  begins  to  dawn 
on  the  wakened  mind,  and  the  ripe  and  enviable 
complacency  of  its  senior  dignity,  —  all  scud  over 
my  memory  like  this  morning  breeze  along  the  mead 
ows,  and  like  that,  too,  bear  upon  their  wing  a  chill- 
ness  as  of  distant  ice-banks. 


THE  MORNING.  167 

Ben  has  grown  almost  to  manhood  ;  Lilly  is  living 
in  a  distant  home  ;  and  Isabel  is  just  blooming  into 
that  sweet  age  where  womanly  dignity  waits  her 
beauty,  —  an  age  that  sorely  puzzles  one  who  has 
grown  up  beside  her,  making  him  slow  of  tongue, 
but  very  quick  of  heart. 

As  for  the  rest  —  let  us  pass  on. 

The  sea  is  around  me.  The  last  headlands  have 
gone  down  under  the  horizon,  like  the  city  stee 
ples,  as  you  lose  yourself  in  the  calm  of  the  coun 
try,  or  like  the  great  thoughts  of  genius,  as  you 
slip  from  the  pages  of  poets  into  your  own  quiet 
Reverie. 

The  waters  skirt  me  right  and  left ;  there  is 
nothing  but  water  before,  and  only  water  behind. 
Above  me  are  sailing  clouds,  or  the  blue  vault, 
which  we  call,  with  childish  license,  heaven.  The 
sails  white  and  full,  like  helping  friends,  are  push 
ing  me  on  ;  and  night  and  day  are  distent  with  the 
winds  which  come  and  go  —  none  know  whence, 
and  none  know  whither.  A  land-bird  nutters  aloft, 
weary  with  long  flying,  and  lost  in  a  world  where 
are  no  forests  but  the  careening  masts,  and  no 
foliage  but  the  drifts  of  spray.  It  cleaves  a  while 
to  the  smooth  spars,  till  urged  by  some  homeward 
yearning,  it  bears  off  in  the  face  of  the  wind,  and 
sinks  and  rises  over  ths  angry  waters,  until  its 


1 68  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

strength  is  gone,  and  the  blue  waves  gather  the 
poor  flutterer  to  their  cold  and  glassy  bosom. 

All  the  morning  I  see  nothing  beyond  me  but  the 
waters,  or  a  tossing  company  of  dolphins ;  all  the 
noon,  unless  some  white  sail,  like  a  ghost,  stalks  the 
horizon,  there  is  still  nothing  but  the  rolling  seas  ; 
all  the  evening,  after  the  sun  has  grown  big  and 
sunk  under  the  water-line,  and  the  moon  risen  white 
and  cold  to  glimmer  across  the  tops  of  the  surging 
ocean,  there  is  nothing  but  the  sea  and  the  sky  to 
lead  off  thought,  or  to  crush  it  with  their  greatness. 

Hour  after  hour  as  I  sit  in  the  moonlight  upon  the 
taffrail,  the  great  waves  gather  far  back  and  break,  — 
and  gather  nearer,  and  break  louder,  —  and  gather 
again,  and  roll  down  swift  and  terrible  under  the 
creaking  ship,  and  heave  it  up  lightly  upon  their 
swelling  surge,  and  drop  it  gently  to  their  seething 
and  yeasty  cradle,  like  an  infant  in  the  swaying 
arms  of  a  mother,  or  like  a  shadowy  memory  upon 
the  billows  of  manly  thought. 

Conscience  wakes  in  the  silent  nights  of  ocean  ; 
life  lies  open  like  a  book,  and  spreads  out  as  level 
as  the  sea.  Regrets  and  broken  resolutions  chase 
over  the  soul  like  swift-winged  night-birds  ;  and  all 
the  unsteady  heights  and  the  wastes  of  action  lift 
up  distinct  and  clear  from  the  uneasy  but  limpid 
depths  of  memory. 


THE  MORNING.  169 

Yet  within  this  floating  world  I  am  upon,  sympa 
thies  are  narrowed  down  ;  they  cannot  range,  as 
upon  the  land,  over  a  thousand  objects.  You  are 
strangely  attracted  toward  some  frail  girl,  whose 
pallor  has  now  given  place  to  the  rich  bloom  of  the 
sea-life.  You  listen  eagerly  to  the  chance-snatches 
of  a  song  from  below  in  the  long  morning  watch. 
You  love  to  see  her  small  feet  tottering  on  the  un 
steady  deck  ;  and  you  love  greatly  to  aid  her  steps, 
and  feel  her  weight  upon  your  arm,  as  the  ship 
lurches  to  a  heavy  sea. 

Hopes  and  fears  knit  together  pleasantly  upon  the 
ocean.  Each  day  seems  to  revive  them  ;  your  morn 
ing  salutation  is  like  a  welcome  after  absence  upon 
the  shore,  and  each  "  good-night  "  has  the  depth  and 
fulness  of  a  land  "  farewell."  And  beauty  grows 
upon  the  ocean  ;  you  cannot  certainly  say  that  the 
face  of  the  fair  girl-voyager  is  prettier  than  that  of 
Isabel ;  oh,  no  ;  but  you  are  certain  that  you  cast 
innocent  and  honest  glances  upon  her,  as  you  steady 
her  walk  upon  the  deck,  far  oftener  than  at  first ; 
and  ocean  life  and  sympathy  makes  her  kind  ;  she 
does  not  resent  your  rudeness  one  half  so  stoutly  as 
she  might  upon  the  shore. 

She  will  even  linger  of  an  evening — pleading 
first  with  the  mother,  and  standing  beside  you,  — 
her  white  hand  not  very  far  from  yours  upon  the 


170  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

rail,  —  look  down  where  the  black  ship  flings  off 
with  each  plunge  whole  garlands  of  emeralds  ;  or 
she  will  look  up  (thinking  perhaps  you  are  looking 
the  same  way)  into  the  skies  in  search  of  some  stars 
—  which  were  her  neighbors  at  home.  And  bits  of 
old  tales  will  come  up  as  if  they  rode  upon  the 
ocean  quietude ;  and  fragments  of  half-forgotten 
poems,-  tremulously  uttered,  either  by  reason  of  the 
rolling  of  the  ship,  or  some  accidental  touch  of  that 
white  hand. 

But  ocean  has  its  storms,  when  fear  will  make 
strange  and  holy  companionship  ;  and  even  here  my 
memory  shifts  swiftly  and  suddenly. 

It  is  a  dreadful  night.  The  passengers  are 

clustered,  trembling,  below.  Every  plank  shakes  ; 
and  the  oak  ribs  groan  as  if  they  suffered  with  their 
toil.  The  hands  are  all  aloft ;  the  captain  is  forward 
shouting  to  the  mate  in  the  cross-trees,  and  I  am 
clinging  to  one  of  the  stanchions  by  the  binnacle. 
The  ship  is  pitching  madly,  and  the  waves  are  top 
pling  up  sometimes  as  high  as  the  yard-arm,  and 
then  dipping  away  with  a  whirl  under  our  keel,  that 
makes  every  timber  in  the  vessel  quiver.  The 
thunder  is  roaring  like  a  thousand  cannons  ;  and  at 
the  moment  the  sky  is  cleft  with  a  stream  of  fire 
that  glares  over  the  tops  of  the  waves,  and  glistens 
on  the  wet  decks  and  the  spars,  —  lighting  up  all  so 


THE  MORNING.  171 

plain,  that  I  can  see  the  men's  faces  in  the  main-top, 
and  catch  glimpses  of  the  reefers  on  the  yard-arm, 
clinging  like  death  ;  —  then  all  is  horrible  dark 
ness. 

The  spray  spits  angrily  against  the  canvas ;  the 
waves  crash  against  the  weather-bow  like  mountains  ; 
the  wind  howls  through  the  rigging,  or,  as  a  gasket 
gives  way,  the  sail,  bellying  to  leeward,  splits  like  a 
crack  of  a  musket.  I  hear  the  captain  in  the  lulls 
screaming  out  orders  ;  and  the  mate  in  the  rigging 
screaming  them  over,  until  the  lightning  comes,  and 
the  thunder,  deadening  their  voices  as  if  they  were 
chirping  sparrows. 

In  one  of  the  flashes  I  see  a  hand  upon  the  yard- 
arm  lose  his  foothold  as  the  ship  gives  a  plunge  ; 
but  his  arms  are  clenched  around  the  spar.  Before 
I  can  see  any  more,  the  blackness  comes,  and  the 
thunder,  with  a  crash  that  half  deafens  me.  I  think 
I  hear  a  low  cry,  as  the  mutterings  die  away  in  the 
distance  ;  and  at  the  next  flash  of  lightning,  which 
comes  in  an  instant,  I  see  upon  the  top  of  one  of  the 
waves  alongside  the  poor  reefer  who  has  fallen.  The 
lightning  glares  upon  his  face. 

But  he  has  caught  at  a  loose  bit  of  running  rig 
ging  as  he  fell ;  and  I  see  it  slipping  off  the  coil 
upon  the  deck.  I  shout  madly,  "Man  overboard  !  " 
and  catch  the  rope,  when  I  can  see  nothing  again. 


172  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

The  sea  is  too  high,  and  the  man  too  heavy  for  me. 
I  shout,  and  shout,  and  shout,  and  feel  the  perspira 
tion  starting  in  great  beads  from  my  forehead  as  the 
line  slips  through  my  fingers. 

Presently  the  captain  feels  his  way  aft  and  takes 
hold  with  me  ;  and  the  cook  comes  as  the  coil  is 
nearly  spent,  and  we  pull  together  upon  him.  It  is 
desperate  work  for  the  sailor  ;  for  the  ship  is  drifting 
at  a  prodigious  rate  ;  but  he  clings  like  a  dying  man. 

By-and-by  at  a  flash  we  see  him  on  a  crest  two 
oars'  lengths  away  from  the  vessel. 

"  Hold  on,  my  man  !  "  shouts  the  captain. 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  quick !  "  says  the  poor  fellow, 
and  he  goes  down  in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  We 
pull  the  harder,  and  the  captain  keeps  calling  to 
him  to  keep  up  courage  and  hold  strong.  But  in 
the  hush  we  can  hear  him  say,  —  "I  can't  hold  out 
much  longer ;  I'm  most  gone  !  " 

Presently  we  have  brought  the  man  where  we  can 
lay  hold  of  him,  and  are  only  waiting  for  a  good  lift 
of  the  sea  to  bring  him  up,  when  the  poor  fellow 
groans  out,  —  "  It's  no  use  —  I  can't  —  good-bye  ! " 
And  a  wave  tosses  the  end  of  the  rope  clean  upon 
the  bulwarks. 

At  the  next  flash  I  see  him  going  down  under  the 
water. 

I  grope  my  way  below,  sick  and  faint  at  heart : 


THE  MORNING.  173 

and  wedging  myself  into  my  narrow  berth,  I  try  to 
sleep.  But  the  thunder  and  the  tossing  of  the  ship, 
and  the  face  of  the  drowning  man  as  he  said  good 
bye,  peering  at  me  from  every  corner,  will  not  let 
me  sleep. 

Afterward  come  quiet  seas,  over  which  we  boom 
along,  leaving  in  our  track  at  night  a  broad  path  of 
phosphorescent  splendor.  The  sailors  bustle  around 
the  decks  as  if  they  had  lost  no  comrade  ;  and  the 
voyagers,  losing  the  pallor  of  fear,  look  out  earnestly 
for  the  land. 

At  length  my  eyes  rest  upon  the  coveted  fields  of 
Britain  ;  and  in  a  day  more  the  bright  face,  looking 
out  beside  me,  sparkles  at  sight  of  the  sweet  cot 
tages  which  lie  along  the  green  Essex  shores. 
Broad-sailed  yachts,  looking  strangely  yet  beautiful, 
glide  upon  the  waters  of  the  Thames  like  swans ; 
black,  square-rigged  colliers  from  the  Tyne  lie 
grouped  in  sooty  cohorts  ;  and  heavy,  three-decked 
Indiamen  —  of  which  I  had  read  in  story-books  — 
drift  slowly  down  with  the  tide.  Dingy  steamers 
with  white  pipes  and  with  red  pipes,  whiz  past  us  to 
the  sea  ;  and  now  my  eye  rests  on  the  great  palace 
of  Greenwich  ;  I  see  the  wooden-legged  pensioners 
smoking  under  the  palace-walls,  and  above  them  upon 
the  hill  —  as  Heaven  is  true  —  that  old  fabulous 
Greenwich,  the  great  centre  of  school-boy  Longitude. 


1-4  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Presently,  from  under  a  cloud  of  murky  smoke 
heaves  up  the  vast  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  and  the  tall 
Column  of  the  Fire,  and  the  white  turrets  of  Lon 
don  Tower.  Our  ship  glides  through  the  massive 
dock-gates,  and  is  moored  amid  the  forest  of  masts 
which  bears  golden  fruit  for  Britons. 

That  night  I  sleep  far  away  from  "  the  old  school," 
and  far  away  from  the  valley  of  Hill-farm.  Long  and 
late  I  toss  upon  my  bed,  with  sweet  visions  in  my 
mind  of  London  Bridge,  and  Temple  Bar,  and  Jane 
Shore,  and  Falstaff,  and  Prince  Hal,  and  King 
Jamie.  And  when  at  length  I  fall  asleep,  my  dreams 
are  very  pleasant,  but  they  carry  me  across  the 
ocean,  away  from  the  ship,  away  from  London,  away 
even  from  the  fair  voyager  —  to  the  old  oaks,  and  to 
the  brooks,  and  —  to  thy  side,  sweet  Isabel ! 

The  Father-Land. 

THERE  is  a  great  contrast  between  the  easy  desha 
bille  of  the  ocean  life,  and  the  prim  attire  and  con 
ventional  spirit  of  the  land.  In  the  first  there  are 
but  few  to  please,  and  these  few  are  known,  and 
they  know  us  ;  upon  the  shore  there  is  a  world  to 
humor,  and  a  world  of  strangers.  In  a  brilliant 
drawing-room  looking  out  upon  the  site  of  old  Char 
ing  Cross,  and  upon  the  one-armed  Nelson  standing 


THE  MORNING.  175 

aloft  at  his  coil  of  rope,  I  take  leave  of  the  fair  voy 
ager  of  the  sea.  Her  white  neglige  has  given  place 
to  silks  ;  and  the  simple,  careless  coiffe  of  the  ocean 
is  replaced  by  the  rich  dressing  of  a  modiste.  Yet 
her  face  has  the  same  bloom  upon  it ;  and  her  eye 
sparkles,  as  it  seems  to  me,  with  a  higher  pride  ; 
and  her  little  hand  has,  I  think,  a  tremulous  quiver 
in  it  (I  am  sure  my  own  has)  as  I  bid  her  adieu,  and 
take  up  the  trail  of  my  wanderings  into  the  heart  of 
England. 

Abuse  her  as  we  will,  —  pity  her  starving  peas 
antry  as  we  may,  —  smile  at  her  court  pageantry  as 
much  as  we  like,  —  old  England  is  dear  old  England 
still.  Her  cottage-homes,  her  green  fields,  her  cas 
tles,  her  blazing  firesides,  her  church-spires  are  as 
old  as  song  ;  and  by  song  and  story  we  inherit  them 
in  our  hearts.  This  joyous  boast  was,  I  remember, 
upon  my  lip  as  I  first  trod  upon  the  rich  meadow 
of  Runnymede,  and  recalled  that  Great  Charter 
wrested  from  the  king,  which  made  the  first  step 
ping-stone  toward  the  bounties  of  our  western  free 
dom. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  that  comes  over  the  western 
Saxon  as  he  strolls  first  along  the  green  by-lanes 
of  England,  and  scents  the  hawthorn  in  its  April 
bloom,  and  lingers  at  some  quaint  stile  to  watch  the 
rooks  wheeling  and  cawing  around  some  lofty  elm- 


176  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

tops,  and  traces  the  carved  gables  of  some  old  coun 
try  mansion  that  lies  in  their  shadow,  and  hums 
some  fragment  of  charming  English  poesy  that 
seems  made  for  the  scene.  This  is  not  sight-seeing 
nor  travel ;  it  is  dreaming  sweet  dreams  that  are  fed 
with  the  old  life  of  Books. 

I  wander  on,  fearing  to  break  the  dream  by  a 
swift  step  ;  and  winding  and  rising  between  the 
blooming  hedgerows,  I  come  presently  to  the  sight 
of  some  sweet  valley  below  me,  where  a  thatched 
hamlet  lies  sleeping  in  the  April  sun  as  quietly  as 
the  dead  lie  in  history ;  no  sound  reaches  me  save 
the  occasional  clink  of  the  smith's  hammer,  or  the 
hedgeman's  billhook,  or  the  ploughman's  "  ho-tup  !  " 
from  the  hills.  At  evening,  listening  to  the  night 
ingale,  I  stroll  wearily  into  some  close-nestled  vil 
lage  that  I  had  seen  long  ago  from  a  rolling  height. 
It  is  far  away  from  the  great  lines  of  travel ;  and 
the  children  stop  their  play  to  have  a  look  at  me, 
and  the  rosy-faced  girls  peep  from  behind  half- 
opened  doors. 

Standing  apart,  and  with  a  bench  on  either  side 
of  the  entrance,  is  the  inn  of  the  Eagle  and  the  Fal 
con,  —  which  guardian  birds  some  native  Dick  Tinto 
has  pictured  upon  the  swinging  sign-board  at  the 
corner.  The  hostess  is  half  ready  to  embrace  me, 
and  treats  me  hike  a  prince  in  disguise.  She  shows 


THE  MORNING.  177 

me  through  the  tap-room  into  a  little  parlor  with 
white  curtains,  and  with  neatly  framed  prints  of  the 
old  patriarchs.  Here,  alone,  beside  a  brisk  fire 
kindled  with  furze,  I  watch  the  white  flame  leaping 
playfully  through  the  black  lumps  of  coal,  and  enjoy 
the  best  fare  of  the  Eagle  and  the  Falcon.  If  too 
late  or  too  early  for  her  garden-stock,  the  hostess 
bethinks  herself  of  some  small  pot  of  jelly  in  an 
out-of-the-way  cupboard  of  the  house,  and  setting 
it  temptingly  in  her  prettiest  dish,  she  coyly  slips  it 
upon  the  white  cloth,  with  a  modest  regret  that  it 
is  no  better,  and  a  little  evident  satisfaction  that 
it  is  so  good. 

I  muse  for  an  hour  before  the  glowing  fire,  as 
quiet  as  the  cat  that  has  come  in  to  bear  me  com 
pany  ;  and  at  bedtime  I  find  sheets  as  fresh  as  the 
air  of  the  mountains. 

At  another  time,  and  many  months  later,  I  am 
walking  under  a  wood  of  Scottish  firs.  It  is  near 
nightfall,  and  the  fir-tops  are  swaying,  and  sighing 
hoarsely  in  the  cool  wind  of  the  Northern  High 
lands.  There  is  none  of  the  smiling  landscape  of 
England  about  me  ;  and  the  crags  of  Edinburgh 
and  Castle  Stirling,  and  sweet  Perth,  in  its  lovely 
valley,  are  far  to  the  southward.  The  larches  of 
Athol  and  Bruar  Water,  and  that  highland  gem 


178  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Dunkeld,  are  passed.  I  am  tired  with  a  morning's 
tramp  over  Culloden  Moor ;  and  from  the  edge  of 
the  wood  there  stretch  before  me,  in  the  cool  gray 
twilight,  broad  fields  of  heather.  In  the  middle 
there  rise  against  the  night-sky  the  turrets  of  a  cas 
tle  ;  it  is  Castle  Cawdor,  where  King  Duncan  was 
murdered  by  Macbeth. 

The  sight  of  it  lends  a  spur  to  my  weary  step ; 
and  emerging  from  the  wood,  I  bound  over  the 
springy  heather.  In  an  hour  I  clamber  a  broken 
wall,  and  come  under  the  frowning  shadows  of  the 
castle.  The  ivy  clambers  up  here  and  there,  and 
shakes  its  uncropped  branches  and  its  dried  berries 
over  the  heavy  portal.  I  cross  the  moat,  and  my 
step  makes  the  chains  of  the  drawbridge  rattle.  All 
is  kept  in  the  old  state  ;  only  in  lieu  of  the  warder's 
horn,  I  pull  at  the  warder's  bell.  The  echoes  ring 
and  die  in  the  stone  courts ;  but  there  is  no  one 
astir,  nor  is  there  a  light  at  any  of  the  castle-win 
dows.  I  ring  again,  and  the  echoes  come  and  blend 
with  the  rising  night-wind  that  sighs  around  the 
turrets  as  they  sighed  that  night  of  murder.  I 
fancy  —  it  must  be  a  fancy  —  that  I  hear  an  owl 
scream  ;  I  am  sure  that  I  hear  the  crickets  cry. 

I  sit  down  upon  the  green  bank  of  the  moat ;  a 
little  dark  water  lies  in  the  bottom.  The  walls  rise 
from  it  gray  and  stern  in  the  deepening  shadows. 


THE  MORNING.  179 

I  hum  chance  passages  of  Macbeth,  listening  for 
the  echoes,  —  echoes  from  the  wall,  and  echoes  from 
that  far  away  time  when  I  stole  the  first  reading  of 
the  tragic  story. 

"  Didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 
I  beard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

When? 

Now. 

As  I  descended  ? 

Ay. 

Hark !  " 

And  the  sharp  echo  comes  back  —  "  hark ! "  And 
at  dead  of  night,  in  the  thatched  cottage  under  the 
castle-walls,  where  a  dark-faced  Gaelic  woman  in 
plaid  turban  is  my  hostess,  I  wake,  startled  by  the 
wind,  and  my  trembling  lips  say  involuntarily  — 
"  hark !  " 

Again,  three  months  later,  I  am  in  the  sweet 
county  of  Devon.  Its  valleys  are  like  emerald ;  its 
threads  of  Avater,  stretched  over  the  fields  by  their 
provident  husbandry,  glisten  in  the  broad  glow  of 
summer  like  skeins  of  silk.  A  bland  old  farmer,  of 
the  true  British  stamp,  is  my  host.  On  market- 
days  he  rides  over  to  the  old  town  of  Totness  in 
a  trim,  black  farmer's  cart ;  and  he  wears  glossy 
topped  boots  and  a  broad-brimmed  white  hat.  I 
take  a  vast  deal  of  pleasure  in  listening  to  his 


i8o  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

honest,  straightforward  talk  about  the  improve 
ments  of  the  day  and  the  state  of  the  nation.  I 
sometimes  get  upon  one  of  his  nags,  and  ride  off 
with  him  over  his  fields,  or  visit  the  homes  of  the 
laborers,  which  show  their  gray  roofs  in  every 
charming  nook  of  the  landscape.  At  the  parish- 
church  I  doze  against  the  high  pew-backs  as  I  listen 
to  the  see-saw  tones  of  the  drawling  curate  ;  and  in 
my  half- wakeful  moments  the  withered  holly  sprigs 
(not  removed  since  mid-winter)  grow  upon  my 
vision  into  Christmas-boughs,  and  preach  sermons 
to  me  of  the  days  of  old. 

Sometimes  I  wander  far  over  the  hills  into  a 
neighboring  park,  and  spend  hours  on  hours  under 
the  sturdy  oaks,  watching  the  sleek  fallow  deer 
gazing  at  me  with  their  soft,  liquid  eyes.  The 
squirrels,  too,  play  above  me  with  their  daring 
leaps,  utterly  careless  of  my  presence,  and  the 
pheasants  whir  away  from  my  very  feet. 

On  one  of  these  random  strolls,  —  I  remember  it 
very  well,  —  when  I  was  idling  along,  thinking  of 
the  broad  reach  of  water  that  lay  between  me  and 
that  old  forest  home,  and  beating  off  the  daisy 
heads  with  my  stick,  I  heard  the  tramp  of  horses 
coming  up  one  of  the  forest  avenues.  The  sound 
was  unusual  ;  for  the  family,  I  had  been  told,  was 
still  in  town,  and  no  right  of  way  lay  through  the 


THE  MORNING.  181 

park.  There  they  were,  however ;  —  I  was  sure  it 
must  be  the  family,  from  the  careless  way  in  which 
they  sauntered  up. 

First  there  was  a  noble  hound  that  came  bound 
ing  toward  me,  gazed  a  moment,  and  turned  to 
watch  the  approach  of  the  little  cavalcade.  Next 
was  an  elderly  gentleman  mounted  upon  a  spirited 
hunter,  attended  by  a  boy  of  some  dozen  years, 
who  managed  his  pony  with  a  grace  that  is  a  part 
of  the  English  boy's  education.  Then  followed  two 
older  lads,  and  a  travelling  phaeton  in  which  sat  a 
couple  of  elderly  ladies.  But  what  most  drew  my 
attention  was  a  girlish  figure  that  rode  beyond  the 
carriage  upon  a  sleek  -  limbed  gray.  There  was 
something  in  the  easy  grace  of  her  attitude  and  the 
rich  glow  that  lit  up  her  face  —  heightened,  as  it 
was,  by  the  little  black  riding-cap  relieved  with  a 
single  flowing  plume  —  that  kept  my  eye.  It  was 
strange,  but  I  thought  that  I  had  seen  such  a  figure 
before,  and  such  a  face,  and  such  an  eye  ;  and  as  I 
made  the  ordinary  salutation  of  a  stranger,  and 
caught  her  smile,  I  could  have  sworn  that  it  was 
she  —  my  fair  companion  of  the  ocean.  The  truth 
flashed  upon  me  in  a  moment.  She  was  to  visit, 
she  had  told  me,  a  friend  in  the  south  of  England ; 
—  and  this  was  the  friend's  home  ;  and  one  of  the 
ladies  in  the  carriage  was  her  mother,  and  one  of 


1 82  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

the  lads  the  school-boy  brother  who  had  teased  her 
on  the  sea. 

I  recall  now  perfectly  her  frank  manner  as  she 
ungloved  her  hand  to  bid  me  welcome.  I  strolled 
beside  them  to  the  steps.  Old  Devon  had  suddenly 
renewed  its  beauties  for  me.  I  had  much  to  tell 
her  of  the  little  outlying  nooks  which  my  wayward 
feet  had  led  me  to ;  and  she  —  as  much  to  ask.  My 
stay  with  the  bland  old  farmer  lengthened  ;  and 
two  days'  hospitalities  at  the  Park  ran  over  into 
three,  and  four.  There  was  hard  galloping  down 
those  avenues ;  and  new  strolls,  not  at  all  lonely, 
under  the  sturdy  oaks.  The  long  summer  twilight 
of  England  used  to  find  a  very  happy  fellow  linger 
ing  on  the  garden -terrace,  looking  now  at  the 
rookery,  where  the  belated  birds  quarrelled  for  a 
resting-place,  and  now  down  the  long  forest  vista, 
gray  with  distance,  and  closed  with  the  white  spire 
of  Modbury  church. 

English  country  life  gains  fast  upon  one  —  very 
fast ;  and  it  is  not  so  easy  as  in  the  drawing-room 
of  Charing  Cross,  to  say  —  adieu.  But  it  is  said  — 
very  sadly  said  ;  for  God  only  knows  how  long  it 
is  to  last.  And  as  I  rode  slowly  down  toward  the 
lodge  after  my  leave-taking,  I  turned  back  again, 
and  again,  and  again.  I  thought  I  saw  her  standing 
still  upon  the  terrace,  though  it  was  almost  dark ; 


THE  MORNING.  183 

and  I  thought  —  it  could  hardly  have  been  an  illu 
sion  —  that  I  saw  something  white  waving  from  her 
hand. 

Her  name  —  as  if  I  could  forget  it  —  was  Caroline  ; 
her  mother  called  her  Carry.  I  wondered  how  it 
would  seem  for  me  to  call  her  "  Carry."  I  tried  it : 
it  sounded  well.  I  tried  it  over  and  over,  until  I 
came  too  near  the  lodge.  There  I  threw  a  half-crown 
to  the  woman  who  opened  the  gate  for  me.  She 
curtsied  low,  and  said,  "  God  bless  you,  sir  !  " 

I  liked  her  for  it ;  I  would  have  given  a  guinea  for 
it ;  and  that  night  —  whether  it  was  the  old  woman's 
benediction  or  the  waving  scarf  upon  the  terrace,  I 
do  not  know,  but  —  there  was  a  charm  upon  my 
thought  and  my  hope,  as  if  an  angel  had  been  near  me. 

It  passed  away,  though,  in  my  dreams  ;  for  I 
dreamed  that  I  saw  the  sweet  face  of  Bella  in  an 
English  park,  and  that  she  wore  a  black  velvet  rid 
ing-cap  with  a  plume  ;  and  I  came  up  to  her  and 
murmured,  —  very  tenderly,  I  thought,  —  "  Carry, 
dear  Carry !  "  and  she  started,  looked  sadly  at  me, 
and  turned  away.  I  ran  after  her  to  kiss  her  as  I 
did  when  she  sat  upon  my  mother's  lap,  on  the  day 
when  she  came  near  drowning.  I  longed  to  tell  her, 
as  I  did  then,  I  do  love  you.  But  she  turned  her 
tearful  face  upon  me,  I  dreamed  ;  and  then  —  I  saw 
no  more. 


1 84  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

A  Roman  Girl. 

1  REMEMBER  the  very  words,  —  "  Non  parlo 

Francese,  Signore,  — I  do  not  speak  French,  Signer," 
said  the  stout  lady  ;  "  but  my  daughter,  perhaps, 
will  understand  you." 

And  she  called,  "  Enrico, !  Enrico, !  venite,  subito  ! 
c'  &  un  forestiere" 

And  the  daughter  came,  her  light-brown  hair  fall 
ing  carelessly  over  her  shoulders,  her  rich  hazel  eye 
twinkling  and  full  of  life,  the  color  coming  and 
going  upon  her  transparent  cheek,  and  her  bosom 
heaving  with  her  quick  step.  With  one  hand  she 
put  back  the  scattered  locks  that  had  fallen  over  her 
forehead,  while  she  laid  the  other  gently  upon  the 
arm  of  her  mother,  and  asked  in  that  sweet  music 
of  the  south,  "  Cosa  volete,  mamma  f" 

It  was  the  prettiest  picture  I  had  seen  in  many  a 
day  ;  and  this  notwithstanding  I  was  in  Home,  and 
had  come  that  very  morning  from  the  Palace  Borg- 
hese. 

The  stout  lady  was  my  hostess,  and  Enrica  —  so 
fair,  so  young,  so  unlike  in  her  beauty  to  other 
Italian  beauties  —  was  my  landlady's  daughter.  The 
house  was  one  of  those  tall  houses  —  very,  very  old 
—  which  stand  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  Corso, 
looking  out  upon  the  Piazzo  di  Colonna.  The  stair- 


THE  MORNING.  185 

cases  were  very  tall  and  dirty,  and  they  were  narrow 
and  dark.  Four  flights  of  stone  steps  led  up  to  the 
corridor  where  they  lived.  A  little  trap  was  in  the 
door,  and  there  was  a  bell- rope,  at  the  least  touch 
of  which  I  was  almost  sure  to  hear  tripping  feet  run 
along  the  stone  floor  within,  and  then  to  see  the 
trap  thrown  slyly  back,  and  those  deep  hazel  eyes 
looking  out  upon  me  ;  and  then  the  door  would 
open,  and  along  the  corridor,  under  the  daughter's 
guidance,  (until  I  had  learned  the  way,)  I  passed  to 
my  Eoman  home.  I  was  a  long  time  learning  the 
way. 

My  chamber  looked  out  upon  the  Corso,  and  I 
could  catch  from  it  a  glimpse  of  the  top  of  the  tall 
column  of  Antoninus,  and  of  a  fragment  of  the 
palace  of  the  Governor.  My  parlor,  which  was 
separated  fi-om  the  apartments  of  the  family  by  a 
narrow  corridor,  looked  upon  a  small  court  hung 
around  with  balconies.  From  the  upper  one  a 
couple  of  black-eyed  girls  are  occasionally  looking 
out,  and  they  can  almost  read  the  title  of  my  book 
when  I  sit  by  the  window.  Below  are  three  or  four 
blooming  ragazze,  who  are  dark-eyed,  and  have 
Roman  luxuriance  of  hair.  The  youngest  is  a 
friend  of  our  Enrica,  and  is  of  course  frequently 
looking  up,  with  all  the  innocence  in  the  world,  to 
see  if  Enrica  may  be  looking  out. 


1 86  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Night  after  night  a  bright  blaze  glows  upon  my 
hearth,  of  the  alder  fagots  which  they  bring  from 
the  Alban  hills.  Night  after  night,  too,  the  family 
come  in,  to  aid  my  blundering  speech,  and  to  enjoy 
the  rich  sparkling  of  my  fagot-fire.  Little  Cesare,  a 
dark- faced  Italian  boy,  takes  up  his  position  with 
pencil  and  slate,  and  draws  by  the  light  of  the  blaze 
genii  and  castles.  The  old  one-eyed  teacher  of  En- 
rica  lays  his  snuffbox  upon  the  table,  and  his  hand 
kerchief  across  his  lap,  and  with  his  spectacles  upon 
his  nose,  and  his  big  fingers  on  the  lesson,  runs 
through  the  French  tenses  of  the  verb  amare.  The 
father,  a  sallow-faced,  keen-eyed  man  with  true 
Italian  visage,  sits  with  his  arms  upon  the  elbows  of 
his  chair,  and  talks  of  the  Pope,  or  of  the  weather. 
A  spruce  Count,  from  the  Marches  of  Ancona,  wears 
a  heavy  watch-seal,  and  reads  Dante  with  furore. 
The  mother,  with  arms  akimbo,  looks  proudly  upon 
her  daughter,  and  counts  her,  as  well  she  may,  a 
gem  among  the  Roman  beauties. 

The  table  was  round,  with  the  fire  blazing  on  one 
side ;  there  was  scarce  room  for  more  than  three 
upon  the  other.  Signor  il  maestro  was  one  ;  then 
Enrica  ;  and  next  —  how  well  I  remember  it  —  came 
myself.  For  I  could  sometimes  help  Enrica  to  a 
word  of  French  ;  and  far  oftener  she  could  help  me 
to  a  word  of  Italian.  Her  face  was  rich  and  full  of 


THE  MORNING.  187 

feeling  ;  I  used  greatly  to  love  to  watch  the  puzzled 
expressions  that  passed  over  her  forehead  as  the 
sense  of  some  hard  phrase  escaped  her ;  and  better 
still,  to  see  the  happy  smile  as  she  caught  at  a  glance 
the  thought  of  some  old  scholastic  Frenchman,  and 
transferred  it  into  the  liquid  melody  of  her  speech. 

She  had  seen  just  sixteen  summers,  and  only  that 
very  autumn  was  escaped  from  the  thraldom  of  a 
convent  upon  the  skirts  of  Rome.  She  knew 
nothing  of  life  but  the  life  of  feeling,  and  all 
thoughts  of  happiness  lay  as  yet  in  her  childish 
hopes.  It  was  pleasant  to  look  upon  her  face,  and 
it  was  still  more  pleasant  to  listen  to  that  sweet 
Roman  voice.  What  a  rich  flow  of  superlatives 
and  endearing  diminutives  from  those  vermilion 
lips !  "Who  would  not  have  loved  the  study  ;  and 
who  would  not  have  loved  —  without  meaning  it  — 
the  teacher? 

In  those  days  I  did  not  linger  long  at  the  tables 
of  lame  Pietro  in  the  Via  Condotti,  but  would 
hurry  back  to  my  little  Roman  parlor  —  the  fire 
was  so  pleasant.  And  it  was  so  pleasant  to  greet 
Enrica  with  her  mother  even  before  the  one-eyed 
maestro  had  come  in  ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  unfold 
the  book  between  us,  and  to  lay  my  hand  upon  the 
page  —  a  small  page  —  where  hers  lay  already. 
And  when  she  pointed  wrong,  it  was  pleasant  to 


1 88  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

correct  her,  over  and  over,  insisting  that  her  hand 
should  be  here,  and  not  there,  and  lifting  those 
little  fingers  from  one  page,  and  putting  them  down 
upon  the  other.  And  sometimes,  half  provoked 
with  my  fault-finding,  she  would  pat  my  hand 
smartly  with  hers  ;  but  when  I  looked  in  her  face 
to  know  what  that  could  mean,  she  would  meet  my 
eye  with  such  a  kind  submission  and  half  earnest 
regret,  as  made  me  not  only  pardon  the  offence,  but 
tempt  me  to  provoke  it  again. 

Through  all  the  days  of  Carnival,  when  I  rode 
pelted  with  confetti,  and  pelting  back,  my  eyes  used 
to  wander  up,  from  a  long  way  off,  to  that  tall 
house  upon  the  Corso,  where  I  was  sure  to  meet, 
again  and  again,  those  forgiving  eyes,  and  that  soft 
brown  hair,  all  gathered  under  the  little  brown 
sombrero,  set  off  with  one  pure  white  plume.  And 
her  hand  full  of  bonbons  she  would  shake  at  me 
threateningly,  and  laugh — a  musical  laugh  —  as  I 
bowed  my  head  to  the  assault,  and  recovering  from 
the  shower  of  missiles,  would  turn  to  throw  my 
stoutest  bouquet  at  her  balcony.  At  night  I  would 
bear  home  to  the  Eoman  parlor  my  best  trophy  of 
the  day,  as  a  guerdon  for  Enrica;  and  Enrica 
would  be  sure  to  render  in  acknowledgment  some 
carefully  hidden  flowers,  the  prettiest  that  her 
beauty  had  won. 


THE  MORNING.  189 

Sometimes  upon  those  Carnival  nights  she  arrays 
herself  in  the  costume  of  the  Albanian  water-car 
riers  ;  and  nothing,  one  "would  think,  could  be  pret 
tier  than  the  laced  crimson  jacket,  and  the  strange 
head-gear  with  its  trinkets,  and  the  short  skirts 
leaving  to  view  as  delicate  an  ankle  as  could  be 
found  in  Rome.  Upon  another  night  she  glides 
into  my  little  parlor,  as  we  sit  by  the  blaze,  in  a 
close  velvet  bodice,  and  with  a  Swiss  hat  caught  up 
by  a  looplet  of  silver,  and  adorned  with  a  full-blown 
rose,  —  nothing  you  think  could  be  prettier  than 
this.  Again,  in  one  of  her  girlish  freaks  she  robes 
herself  like  a  nun  ;  and  with  the  heavy  black  serge 
for  dress,  and  the  funereal  veil,  —  relieved  only  by 
the  plain  white  ruffle  of  her  cap,  —  you  wish  she 
were  always  a  nun.  But  the  wish  vanishes  when 
you  see  her  in  a  pure  white  muslin,  with  a  wreath 
of  orange-blossoms  about  her  forehead,  and  a  sin 
gle  white  rose-bud  in  her  bosom. 

Upon  the  little  balcony  Enrica  keeps  a  pot  or  two 
of  flowers,  which  bloom  all  winter  long ;  and  each 
morning  I  find  upon  my  table  a  fresh  rose-bud  ; 
each  night  I  bear  back  for  thank-offering  the  pretti 
est  bouquet  that  can  be  found  in  the  Via  Condotti. 
The  quiet  fireside  evenings  come  back,  —  in  which 
my  hand  seeks  its  wonted  place  upon  her  book  ;  and 
my  other  will  creep  around  upon  the  back  of  En- 


1 90  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

rica's  chair,  and  Enrica  will  look  indignant  —  and 
then  all  forgiveness. 

One  day  I  received  a  large  packet  of  letters.  Ah, 
what  luxury  to  lie  back  in  my  big  arin-chair,  there 
before  the  crackling  fagots,  with  the  pleasant  rustle 
of  that  silken  dress  beside  me,  and  run  over  a  sec 
ond  and  a  third  time  those  mute  paper  missives, 
which  bore  to  me  over  so  many  miles  of  water  the 
words  of  greeting  and  of  love  !  It  would  be  worth 
travelling  to  the  shores  of  the  .ZEgean,  to  find  one's 
heart  quickened  into  such  life  as  the  ocean  letters 
will  make.  Enrica  threw  down  her  book,  and 
wondered  what  could  be  in  them  ?  —  and  snatched 
one  from  my  hand.,  and  looked  with  sad  but  vain 
intensity  over  that  strange  scrawl.  "  What  can  it 
be  ? "  said  she  ;  and  she  laid  her  finger  upon  the 
little  half  line  —  "  Dear  Paul." 

I  told  her  it  was —  "  Caro  mio." 

Enrica  laid  it  upon  her  lap  and  looked  in  my  face. 
"It  is  from  your  mother  ?  "  said  she. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"  From  your  sister  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Alas,  no  ! " 

"  II  vostrofratello,  dunque  f  " 

"  Nemmeno,"  said  I,  "not  from  a  brother  either." 

She  handed  me  the  letter,  and  took  up  her  book, 
and  presently  she  laid  the  book  down  again,  and 


THE  MORNING.  191 

looked  at  the  letter,  and  then  at  me,  —  and  went 
out. 

She  did  not  come  in  again  that  evening ;  in  the 
morning  there  was  no  rose-bud  on  my  table.  And 
when  I  came  at  night,  with  a  bouquet  from  Pietro's  at 
the  corner,  she  asked  me  who  had  written  my  letter. 

"  A  very  dear  friend,"  said  I. 

"A  lady  ?  "  continued  she. 

"  A  lady,"  said  I. 

"  Keep  this  bouquet  for  her,"  said  she,  and  put  it 
in  my  hands. 

"  But,  Enrica,  she  has  plenty  of  flowers  :  she  lives 
among  them,  and  each  morning  her  children  gather 
them  by  scores  to  make  garlands  of." 

Enrica  put  her  fingers  within  my  hand  to  take 
again  the  bouquet ;  and  for  a  moment  I  held  both 
fingers  and  flowers. 

The  flowers  slipped  out  first. 

I  had  a  friend  in  Rome  at  that  time,  who  after 
ward  died  between  Ancona  and  Corinth.  We  were 
sitting  one  day  upon  a  block  of  tufa  in  the  middle 
of  the  Coliseum,  looking  up  at  the  shadows  which 
the  waving  shrubs  upon  the  southern  wall  cast  upon 
the  ruined  arcades  within,  and  listening  to  the 
chirping  sparrows  that  lived  upon  the  wreck,  when 
he  said  to  me  suddenly,  —  "  Paul,  you  love  the  Ital 
ian  girl." 


192  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

"I  think  she  is  beginning  to  love  you,"  said  he, 
soberly. 

"  She  has  a  very  warm  heart,  I  believe,"  said  I. 

"  Aye,"  said  he. 

"  But  her  feelings  are  those  of  a  girl,"  continued  I. 

"  They  are  not,"  said  my  friend  ;  and  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  my  knee,  and  left  off  drawing  diagrams 
with  his  cane.  "  I  have  seen,  Paul,  more  than  you 
of  this  southern  nature.  The  Italian  girl  of  fifteen 
is  a  woman — an  impassioned,  sensitive,  tender  crea 
ture, — yet  still  a  woman  ;  you  are  loving — if  you 
love  —  a  full  grown  heart ;  she  is  loving  —  if  she 
loves — as  a  ripe  heart  should." 

"But  I  do  not  think  that  either  is  wholly  true," 
said  I. 

"  Try  it,"  said  he,  setting  his  cane  down  firmly, 
and  looking  in  my  face. 

"  How  ?"  returned  I. 

"I  have  three  weeks  upon  -my  hands,"  continued 
he.  "  Go  with  me  into  the  Apennines  ;  leave  your 
home  in  the  Corso,  and  see  if  you  can't  forget  in  the 
air  of  the  mountains  your  bright  eyed  Roman  girl." 

I  was  pondering  for  an  answer,  when  he  went  on, 
— "  It  is  better  so :  love  as  you  might,  that  southern 
nature  with  all  its  passion  is  not  the  material  to 
build  domestic  happiness  upon  ;  nor  is  your  north- 


THE  MORNING.  193 

era  habit  —  whatever  you  may  think  at  your  time 
of  life  —  the  one  to  cherish  always  those  passionate 
sympathies  which  are  bred  by  this  atmosphere  and 
their  scenes." 

One  moment  my  thought  ran  to  my  little  parlor, 
and  to  that  fairy  figure,  and  to  that  charming  face  ; 
and  then  like  lightning  it  traversed  oceans,  and  fed 
upon  the  old  ideal  of  home,  and  brought  images 
to  my  eye  of  lost  —  dead  ones,  who  seemed  to  be 
stirring  on  heavenly  wings,  in  that  soft  Koman  at 
mosphere,  with  greeting  and  with  beckoning. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

The  father  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  I  told 
him  I  was  going  to  the  mountains  and  wanted  a 
guide.  His  wife  said  it  would  be  cold  upon  the  hills, 
for  the  winter  was  not  ended.  Enrica  said  it  would 
be  warm  in  the  valleys,  for  the  spring  was  coming. 
The  old  man  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  table, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  but  said  nothing. 

My  landlady  said  I  could  not  ride.  Cesare  said 
it  would  be  hard  walking.  Enrica  asked  papa  if 
there  would  be  any  danger?  And  again  the  old 
man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Again  I  asked  him 
if  he  knew  a  man  who  would  serve  us  as  guide 
among  the  Apennines  ;  and  finding  me  determined, 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  he  would  find 
one  the  nest  day. 
13 


194  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

As  I  passed  out  at  evening  on  my  way  to  the 
Piazzo  near  the  Monte  Citorio,  where  stand  the  car 
riages  that  go  out  to  Tivoli,  Enrica  glided  up  to  me 
and  whispered,  "  Ah,  mi  displace  tanlo  —  tanto,  Sig- 
nor!" 

The  Apennines. 

I  SHOOK  her  hand,  and  in  an  hour  afterward  was 
passing  with  my  friend  by  the  Trajan  forum,  toward 
the  deep  shadow  of  San  Maggiore,  which  lay  in  our 
way  to  the  mountains.  At  sunset  we  were  wander 
ing  over  the  ruin  of  Adrian's  villa,  which  lies  upon 
the  first  step  of  the  Apennines.  Behind  us,  the 
vesper-bells  of  Tivoli  were  sounding,  and  their 
echoes  floating  sweetly  under  the  broken  arches ; 
before  us,  stretching  all  the  way  to  the  horizon,  lay 
the  broad  Campagna  ;  while  in  the  middle  of  its 
great  waves,  turned  violet-colored  by  the  hues  of 
twilight,  rose  the  grouped  towers  of  the  Eternal 
City ;  and  lording  it  among  them  all,  like  a  giant, 
stood  the  black  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

Day  after  day  we  stretched  on  over  the  moun 
tains,  leaving  the  Campagna  far  behind  us.  Rocks 
and  stones,  huge  and  ragged,  lie  strewed  over  the 
surface  right  and  left ;  deep  yawning  valleys  lie  in 
the  shadows  of  mountains  that  loom  up  thousands 
of  feet,  bearing  perhaps  upon  their  tops  old  castel- 


THE  MORNING.  195 

lated  towns  perched  like  birds'-nests.  But  moun 
tain  and  valley  are  blasted  and  scarred  ;  the  forests 
even  are  not  continuous,  but  struggle  for  a  liveli 
hood,  as  if  the  brimstone  fire  that  consumed  Nine 
veh  had  withered  their  energies.  Sometimes  our 
eyes  rest  on  a  great  white  scar  of  the  broken  calca 
reous  rock,  on  which  the  moss  cannot  grow,  and  the 
lizards  dare  not  creep.  Then  we  see  a  cliff  beetling 
far  aloft,  with  the  shining  walls  of  some  monastery 
of  holy  men  glistening  at  its  base.  The  wayside 
brooks  do  not  seem  to  be  the  gentle  offspring  of 
bountiful  hills,  but  the  remnants  of  something 
greater  whose  greatness  has  expired  ;  —  they  are  tur 
bid  rills,  rolling  in  the  bottom  of  yawning  chasms. 
Even  the  shrubs  have  a  look  as  if  the  Volscian  war- 
horse  had  trampled  them  down  to  death ;  and  the 
primroses  and  the  violets  by  the  mountain-path 
alone  look  modestly  beautiful  amid  the  ruin. 

Sometimes  we  loiter  in  a  valley,  above  which  the 
goats  are  browsing  on  the  cliffs,  and  listen  to  the 
sweet  pastoral  pipes  of  the  Apennines.  "We  see 
the  shepherds  in  their  rough  skin-coats  high  over 
our  heads.  Their  herds  are  feeding,  as  it  seems, 
on  ledges  of  a  hand's-breadth.  The  sweet  sound  of 
their  shepherd  pipes  floats  and  lingers  in  the  soft 
atmosphere,  without  a  breath  of  wind  to  bear  it 
away,  or  a  noise  to  disturb  its  melody.  The  shad- 


I96  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

ows  slant  more  and  more  as  we  linger  ;  and  the  kids 
begin  to  group  together.  And  as  we  wander  on 
through  the  stunted  vineyards  in  the  bottom  of  the 
valley,  the  sweet  sound  flows  after  us  like  a  river  of 
song,  —  nor  leaves  us  till  the  kids  have  vanished  in 
the  distance,  and  the  cliffs  themselves  become  one 
dark  wall  of  shadow. 

At  night,  in  some  little  meagre  mountain  town, 
we  stroll  about  in  the  narrow  pass-ways,  or  wander 
under  the  heavy  arches  of  the  mountain  churches. 
Shuffling  old  women  grope  in  and  out ;  dim  lamps 
glimmer  faintly  at  the  side-altars,  shedding  horrid 
light  upon  painted  images  of  the  dying  Christ.  Or 
perhaps,  to  make  the  old  pile  more  solemn,  there 
stands  some  bier  in  the  middle,  with  a  figure  or  two 
kneeling  at  the  foot,  and  ragged  boys  move  stealthily 
under  the  shadows  of  the  columns.  Presently  comes 
a  young  priest  in  black  robes,  and  lights  a  taper  at 
the  foot,  and  another  at  the  head,  —  for  there  is  a 
dead  man  on  the  bier  ;  and  the  parched  thin  fea 
tures  look  awfully  under  the  yellow  light  of  the 
tapers,  in  the  gloom  of  the  great  building.  It  is 
very  damp  in  the  church,  and  the  body  of  the  dead 
man  seems  to  make  the  air  heavy ;  so  we  go  out 
into  the  starlight  again. 

In  the  morning,  the  western  slopes  wear  broad 
shadows,  and  the  frosts  crumple  on  the  herbage  to 


THE  MORNING.  197 

our  tread.  Across  the  valley  it  is  like  summer ; 
and  the  birds  —  for  there  are  songsters  in  the  Apen 
nines  —  make  summer  music.  Their  notes  blend 
softly  with  the  faint  sounds  of  some  far-off  convent- 
bell  tolling  for  morning  mass,  and  strike  the  frosted 
and  shaded  mountain-side  with  a  sweet  echo.  As 
we  toil  on,  and  the  shaded  hills  begin  to  glow  in 
the  sunshine,  we  pass  a  train  of  mules  loaded  with 
wine.  We  have  seen  them  an  hour  before,  —  little 
black  dots  twining  along  the  white  streak  of  foot 
way  upon  the  mountain  above  us.  We  lost  them  as 
we  began  to  ascend,  until  a  wild  snatch  of  an  Apen- 
nine  song  turned  our  eyes  up,  and  there,  straggling 
through  the  brush,  they  appeared  again  ;  a  foot-slip 
would  have  brought  the  mules  and  wine-casks  roll 
ing  upon  us.  We  keep  still,  holding  by  the  brush 
wood,  to  let  them  pass.  An  hour  more  and  we  see 
them  toiling  slowly,  —  mule  and  muleteer,  —  big 
dots  and  little  dots,  —  far  down  where  we  have  been 
before.  The  sun  is  hot  and  smoking  on  them  in 
the  bare  valleys  ;  the  sun  is  hot  and  smoking  on 
the  hillside,  where  we  are  toiling  over  the  broken 
stones.  I  thought  of  little  Enrica,  when  she  said  — 
the  spring  was  coming. 

Time  and  again,  we  sit  down  together  —  my  friend 
and  I  —  upon  some  fragment  of  rock,  under  the 
broad-armed  chestnuts  that  fringe  the  lower  skirts 


198  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR, 

of  tlie  mountains,  and  talk  through  the  hottest  of 
the  noon,  of  the  warriors  of  Sylla,  and  of  the  Sabine 
women,  —  but  oftener  of  the  pretty  peasantry,  and 
of  the  sweet-faced  Roman  girl.  He  too  tells  me  of 
his  life  and  loves,  and  of  the  hopes  that  lie  misty 
and  grand  before  him  :  —  little  did  we  think  that  in 
so  few  years  his  hopes  would  be  gone,  and  his  body 
lying  low  in  the  Adriatic,  or  tost  with  the  drift  upon 
the  Dalmatian  shores.  Little  did  I  think  that  here 
under  the  ancestral  wood  —  still  a  wishful  and  blun 
dering  mortal  —  I  should  be  gathering  up  the  shreds 
that  memory  can  catch  of  our  Apennine  wandering, 
and  be  weaving  them  into  my  bachelor  dreams. 

Away  again  upon  the  quick  wing  of  thought,  I 
follow  our  steps,  as,  after  weeks  of  wandering,  we 
gained  once  more  a  height  that  overlooked  the  Cam- 
pagna,  and  saw  the  sun  setting  on  its  edge,  throw 
ing  into  relief  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  blazing 
in  a  red  stripe  upon  the  wafers  of  the  Tiber. 

Below  us  was  Palestrina,  —  the  Prn?neste  of  the 
poets  and  philosophers,  —  the  dwelling  place  of  —  I 
know  not  how  many  —  Emperors.  We  went  strag 
gling  through  the  dirty  streets,  searching  for  some 
tidy-looking  osteria.  At  length  we  found  an  oil 
lady,  who  could  give  us  a  bed,  but  no  dinner.  My 
friend  dropped  in  a  chair  disheartened.  A  smug 
looking  priest  came  out  to  condole  with  us- 


THE  MORNING.  159 

And  could  Palestrina,  —  the  frigidum  Prceneste 
of  Horace,  which  had  entertained  over  and  over 
the  noblest  of  the  Colonna,  and  the  most  noble 
Adrian,  —  could  Palestriua  not  furnish  a  dinner  to  a 
tired  traveller  ? 

"Si,  Signore"  said  the  smug-looking  priest. 

"Si,  Signorino"  said  the  neat  old  lady  ;  and 
away  we  went  upon  a  new  search.  And  we  found 
bright  and  happy  faces,  —  especially  the  little  girl  of 
twelve  years,  who  came  close  by  me  as  I  ate,  and 
afterward  strung  a  garland  of  marigolds,  and  put  it 
on  my  head.  Then  there  was  a  bright-eyed  boy  of 
fourteen,  who  wrote  his  name  and  those  of  the 
whole  family  upon  a  fly-leaf  of  my  book  ;  and  a 
pretty,  saucy-lookiug  girl  of  sixteen,  who  peeped  n 
long  time  from  behind  the  kitchen-door  ;  but  before 
the  evening  was  gone  she  was  in  the  chair  beside 
me,  and  had  written  her  name  —  Carlotta  —  upon 
the  first  leaf  of  my  journal. 

When  I  woke,  the  sun  was  up.  From  my  bed  I 
could  see  over  the  town  the  thin,  lazy  mists  lying  on 
the  old  camp -ground  of  Pyrrhus ;  beyond  it  were 
the  mountains  which  hide  Frascati,  and  Monte-Cavi. 
There  was  old  Colonna,  too,  that, 

"  Like  an  eagle's  nest  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Apennine."  * 

*  Macaulay's  Iloratius. 


200  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

As  the  mist  lifted  and  the  sun  brightened  the 
plain,  I  could  see  the  road  along  which  Sylla  came 
fuming  and  maddened  after  the  Mithridatic  war.  I 
could  see,  as  I  half-dreamed  and  half-slept,  the 
frightened  peasantry  whooping  to  their  long-horned 
cattle,  as  they  drove  them  on  tuniultuously  up 
through  the  gateways  of  the  town ;  and  women 
with  babies  in  their  arms,  and  children  scowling 
with  fear  and  hate,  —  all  trooping  fast  and  madly  to 
escape  the  hand  of  the  Avenger  ;  alas,  ineffectually, 
for  Sylla  murdered  them,  and  pulled  down  the  walls 
of  their  town  —  the  proud  Palestrina. 

I  had  a  queer  fancy  of  seeing  the  nobles  of  Rome, 
led  on  by  Stefano  Colonna,  grouping  along  the 
plain,  their  corselets  flashing  out  of  the  mists,  their 
pennons  dashing  above  it,  coming  up  fast  and  still 
as  the  wind,  to  make  the  Mural  Proeneste  their 
stronghold  against  the  Last  of  the  Tribunes.  And 
strangely  mingling  fiction  with  fact,  I  saw  the 
brother  of  Walter  de  Montreal,  Avith  his  noisy  and 
bristling  army,  crowd  over  the  Campagna,  and  put 
up  his  white  tents,  and  hang  out  his  showy  banners 
on  the  grassy  knolls  that  lay  nearest  my  eye. 

—  But  the  knolls  were  all  quiet ;  there  was  not 
so  much  as  a  strolling  contadino  on  them  to  whistle 
a  mimic,  fife-note.  A  little  boy  from  the  inn  went 
with  me  upon  the  hill,  to  look  out  upon  the  town 


THE  MORNING.  201 

and  the  wide  sea  of  land  below  ;  and  whether  it  was 
the  soft,  warm  April  sun,  or  the  gray  ruins  below 
me,  or  whether  the  wonderful  silence  of  the  scene, 
or  some  wild  gush  of  memory,  I  do  not  know,  but 
something  made  me  sad. 

"  Perche  cost  penseroso  ?  —  Why  so  sad  ?  "  said 
the  quick-eyed  boy.  "  The  air  is  beautiful,  the 
scene  is  beautiful;  Signore  is  young, — why  is  he 
sad?" 

"  And  is  Giovanni  never  sad  ?  "  said  L 

"  Quasi  mai,"  said  the  boy  ;  "  and  if  I  could  travel 
as  Signore,  and  see  other  countries,  I  would  be 
always  gay." 

"  May  you  be  always  that !  "  said  I. 

The  good  wish  touched  him  ;  he  took  me  by  the 
arm  and  said,  "  Go  home  with  me,  Signore  ;  you 
were  happy  at  the  inn  last  night ;  go  back,  and  we 
will  make  you  gay  again  !  " 

If  we  could  be  always  boys  ! 

I  thanked  him  in  a  way  that  saddened  him.  We 
passed  out  shortly  after  from  the  city  gates,  and 
strode  on  over  the  rolling  plain.  Once  or  twice  we 
turned  back  to  look  at  the  rocky  heights  beneath 
which  lay  the  ruined  town  of  Palestrina,  —  a  city 
that  defied  Rome,  that  had  a  king  before  a  plough 
share  had  touched  the  Capitoline,  or  the  Janiculan 
hill  The  ivy  was  covering  up  richly  the  Etruscan 


202  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

foundations,  and  there  was  a  quiet  over  the  whole 
place.  The  smoke  was  rising  straight  into  the  sky 
from  the  chimney- tops  ;  a  peasant  or  two  were  go 
ing  along  the  road  with  donkeys  ;  beside  this,  the  city 
was  to  all  appearance  a  dead  city.  And  it  seemed 
to  me  that  an  old  monk,  whom  I  could  see  with  my 
glass  near  the  little  chapel  above  the  town,  might 
be  going  to  say  mass  for  the  soul  of  the  dead  city. 

And  afterward,  when  we  came  near  to  Rome,  and 
passed  under  the  temple-tomb  of  Metella,  my  friend 
said,  "  And  will  you  go  back  now  to  your  home  ?  or 
will  you  set  off  with  me  to-morrow  for  Ancona  ?  " 

"At  least  I  must  say  adieu,"  returned  I. 

"  God  speed  you  !  "  said  he  ;  and  we  parted  upon 
the  Piazza  di  Venezia,  —  he  for  his  last  mass  at  St. 
Peter's,  and  I  for  the  tall  house  upon  the  Corso. 

Enrica. 

I  HEAR  her  glancing  feet  the  moment  I  have  tinkled 
the  bell ;  and  there  she  is,  with  her  brown  hair  gath 
ered  into  braids,  and  her  eyes  full  of  joy  and  greet 
ing.  And  as  I  walk  with  the  mother  to  the  window, 
to  look  at  some  pageant  that  is  passing,  she  steals 
up  behind,  and  passes  her  arm  around  me  with  a 
quick,  electric  motion,  and  a  gentle  pressure  of  wel 
come,  that  tells  more  than  a  thousand  words. 


THE  MORNING.  203 

It  is  a  pageant  of  death  that  is  passing  below. 
Far  down  the  street  we  see  heads  thrust  out  of  the 
windows,  and  standing  in  bold  relief  against  the  red 
torch-light  of  the  moving  train.  Below,  dim  figures 
are  gathering  on  the  narrow  side-ways  to  look  at  the 
solemn  spectacle.  A  hoarse  chant  rises  louder  and 
louder,  and  half  dies  in  the  night-air,  and  breaks  out 
again  with  new  and  deep  bitterness. 

Now  the  first  torch-light  under  us  shines  plainly 
on  faces  in  the  windows,  and  on  the  kneeling  women 
in  the  street.  In  the  front,  come  old  retainers  of 
the  dead  one,  bearing  long,  blazing  flambeaux. 
Then  comes  a  company  of  priests,  two  by  two, 
bareheaded,  and  every  second  one  with  a  lighted 
torch,  and  all  are  chanting. 

Next  is  a  brotherhood  of  friars  in  brown  cloaks, 
with  sandalled  feet ;  and  the  red  light  streams  full 
upon  their  grizzled  heads.  They  add  their  heavy 
guttural  voices  to  the  chant,  and  pass  slowly  on. 

Then  comes  a  company  of  priests,  in  white  mus 
lin  capes,  and  black  robes,  and  black  caps,  bearing 
books  in  their  hands  wide  open,  and  lit  up  plainly 
by  the  torches  of  churchly  servitors  who  march  be 
side  them  ;  and  from  the  books  the  priests  chant 
loud  and  solemnly.  Now  the  music  is  loudest ;  and 
the  friars  take  up  the  dismal  notes  from  the  white- 
caped  priests,  and  the  priests  before  catch  them 


204  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

from  the  brown-robed  friars,  and  mournfully  the 
sound  rises  up  between  the  tall  buildings  into  the 
blue  night-sky  that  lies  between  heaven  and  Rome. 

—  "Vede,  Vede!"  says  Cesare ;  and  in  a  blaze  of 
the  red  torch  fire  comes  the  bier,  borne  on  the  necks 
of  stout  friars  ;  and  on  the  bier  is  the  body  of  a 
dead  man  habited  like  a  priest.     Heavy  plumes  of 
black  wave  at  each  corner. 

—  "  Hist !  "  says  my  landlady. 

The  body  is  just  under  us.  Enrica  crosses  her 
self ;  her  smile  is  for  the  moment  gone.  Cesare's 
boy-face  is  grown  suddenly  earnest.  We  could  see 
the  pale,  youthful  features  of  the  dead  man.  The 
glaring  flambeaux  sent  their  flaunting  streams  of 
unearthly  light  over  the  wan  visage  of  the  sleeper. 
A  thousand  eyes  were  looking  on  him  ;  but  his  face, 
careless  of  them  all,  was  turned  up  straight  toward 
the  stars. 

Still  the  chant  rises ;  and  companies  of  priests 
follow  the  bier  like  those  who  had  gone  before. 
Friars  in  brown  cloaks,  and  priests  and  Carmelites, 
come  after  —  all  with  torches.  Two  by  two  —  their 
voices  growing  hoarse  —  they  tramp,  and  chant. 

For  a  while  the  voices  cease,  and  you  can  hear 
the  rustling  of  their  robes,  and  their  footfalls,  as  if 
your  ear  was  to  the  earth.  Then  the  chant  rises 
again  as  they  glide  on  in  a  wavy,  shining  line,  and 


THE  MORNING.  205 

rolls  back  over  the  death-train,  like  the  howling  of 
a  wind  in  winter. 

As  they  pass,  the  faces  vanish  from  the  windows. 
The  kneeling  women  upon  the  pavement  rise  up, 
mindful  of  the  paroxysm  of  Life  once  more.  The 
groups  in  the  doorways  scatter.  But  their  low 
voices  do  not  drown  the  voices  of  the  host  of 
mourners  and  their  ghost-like  music. 

I  look  long  upon  the  blazing  bier  trailing  under 
the  deep  shadows  of  the  Roman  palaces,  and  at  the 
stream  of  torches  winding  like  a  glittering,  scaled 
serpent. —  "It  is  a  priest,"  say  I  to  my  landlady,  as 
she  closes  the  window. 

"No,  signer,  —  a  young  man  never  married  ;  and 
so  by  virtue  of  his  condition  they  put  on  him  the 
priest  robes." 

"  So  I,"  says  the  pretty  Enrica,  "  if  I  should  die, 
would  be  robed  in  white,  as  you  saw  me  on  a  Carni 
val  night,  and  be  followed  by  nuns  for  sisters." 

"  A  long  way  off  may  it  be,  Enrica  !  " 

She  took  my  hand  in  hers  and  pressed  it.  An 
Italian  girl  does  not  fear  to  talk  of  death  ;  and  we 
were  talking  of  it  still  as  we  walked  back  to  my  lit 
tle  parlor  —  my  hand  all  the  time  in  hers  —  and  sat 
down  by  the  blaze  of  my  fire. 

It  was  Holy  Week.  Never  had  Enrica  looked 
more  sweetly  than  in  that  black  dress,  —  under  that 


206  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

long,  dark  veil  of  the  days  of  Lent.  Upon  the 
broad  pavement  of  St.  Peter's,  where  the  people, 
flocking  by  thousands,  made  only  side-groups  about 
the  altars  of  the  vast  temple,  I  have  watched  her 
kneeling  beside  her  mother,  her  eyes  bent  down, 
her  lips  moving  earnestly,  and  her  whole  figure 
tremulous  with  deep  emotion.  Wandering  around 
among  the  halberdiers  of  the  Pope,  and  the  court- 
coats  of  Austria,  and  the  barefooted  pilgrims  with 
sandal,  shell,  and  staff,  I  would  sidle  back  again 
to  look  upon  that  kneeling  figure  ;  and  leaning 
against  the  huge  columns  of  the  church,  would 
dream  —  even  as  I  am  dreaming  now. 

At  nightfall  I  urge  my  way  into  the  Sistine 
ChapeL  Enrica  is  beside  me,  looking  with  me 
upon  the  gaunt  figures  of  the  Judgment  of  Angelo. 
They  are  chanting  the  Miserere.  The  twelve  candle 
sticks  -by  the  altar  are  put  out  one  by  one,  as  the 
service  continues.  The  sun  has  gone  down,  and 
only  the  red  glow  of  twilight  steals  through  the 
dusky  windows.  There  is  a  pause,  and  a  brief 
reading  from  a  red-cloaked  cardinal,  and  all  kneel 
down.  She  kneels  beside  me ;  and  the  sweet, 
mournful  flow  of  the  Miserere  begins  again,  grow 
ing  in  force  and  depth  till  the  whole  chapel  rings, 
and  the  balcony  of  the  choir  trembles  ;  then  it  sub 
sides  again  into  the  low,  soft  wail  of  a  single  voice. 


THE  MORNING.  207 

so  prolonged,  so  tremulous,  and  so  real,  that  the 
heart  aches  —  for  Christ  is  dead  ! 

Lingering  yet,  the  wail  dies  not  wholly,  but  just 
as  it  seemed  expiring,  it  is  caught  up  by  another 
and  stronger  voice  that  carries  it  on,  plaintive  as 
ever ;  —  nor  does  it  stop  with  this  ;  for  just  as  you 
looked  for  silence,  three  voices  more  begin  the 
lament,  —  sweet,  touching,  mournful  voices,  —  and 
bear  it  up  to  a  full  cry,  when  the  whole  choir  catch 
its  burden,  and  make  the  lament  change  into  the 
wailing  of  a  multitude,  —  wild,  shrill,  hoarse,  — 
with  swift  chants  intervening,  as  if  agony  had  given 
force  to  anguish.  Then,  sweetly,  slowly,  voice  by 
voice,  note  by  note,  the  wailings  sink  into  the  low, 
tender  moan  of  a  single  singer  —  faltering,  tremu 
lous,  as  if  tears  checked  the  utterance,  and  swelling 
out  in  gusts  of  sound  as  if  despair  sustained  it. 

It  was  dark  in  the  chapel  when  we  went  out ; 
voices  were  low.  Enrica  said  nothing,  —  I  could 
say  nothing. 

I  was  to  leave  Eome  after  Easter.  I  did  not  love 
to  speak  of  it,  nor  to  think  of  it.  Rome  —  that  old 
city  with  all  its  misery,  and  its  fallen  state,  and  its 
broken  palaces  of  the  Empire  —  grows  upon  one's 
heart.  The  fringing  shrubs  of  the  Coliseum,  flaunt 
ing  their  blossoms  at  the  tall  beggarmen  in  cloaks, 
who  grub  below,  —  the  sun  glimmering  over  the 


208  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

mossy  pile  of  the  House  of  Nero,  —  the  sweet  sun- 
sets  from  the  Pincian,  that  make  the  broad  pine- 
tops  of  the  Janiculan  stand  sharp  and  dark  against 
a  sky  of  gold,  —  cannot  easily  be  left  behind.  And 
Enrica,  with  her  silver-brown  hair,  and  the  silken 
fillet  that  bound  it,  —  and  her  deep  hazel  eyes,  — 
and  her  white,  delicate  fingers,  —  and  the  blue  veins 
chasing  over  her  fair  temples,  —  ah,  Easter  is  too 
near. 

But  it  comes ;  and  passes  with  the  glory  of  St. 
Peter's  —  lighted  from  top  to  bottom.  With  En 
rica,  I  saw  it  from  the  Bipetta,  as  it  loomed  up  in 
the  distance,  like  a  city  on  fire. 

The  next  day  I  bring  home  my  last  bunch  of 
flowers,  and  with  it  a  little  richly  chased  Roman 
ring.  No  fire  blazes  on  the  hearth,  —  but  they  are 
all  there.  Warm  days  have  come,  and  the  summer 
air  even  now  hangs,  heavy  with  fever,  in  the  hollows 
of  the  plain. 

I  heard  them  stirring  early  on  the  morning  on 
which  I  was  to  go  away.  I  do  not  think  I  slept 
very  well  myself —  nor  very  late.  Never  did  Enrica 
look  more  beautiful  —  never.  All  her  Carnival 
robes,  and  the  sad  drapery  of  the  Friday  of  Cruci 
fixion,  could  not  so  adorn  her  beauty  as  that  neat 
morning-dress,  and  that  simple  rose-bud  she  wore 
upon  her  bosom.  She  gave  it  to  me  —  the  last  — 


THE  MORNING.  209 

with  a  trembling  hand.  I  did  not,  for  I  could  not, 
thank  her.  She  knew  it ;  and  her  eyes  were  full. 

The  old  man  kissed  my  cheek,  —  it  was  the  Ro 
man  custom  ;  but  the  custom  did  not  extend  to  the 
Roman  girls  —  at  least  not  often.  As  I  passed 
down  the  Corso  I  looked  back  at  the  balcony, 
where  she  stood  in  the  time  of  Carnival,  in  the 
brown  sombrero  with  the  white  plume.  I  knew  she 
would  be  there  now  ;  and  there  she  was.  My  eyes 
dwelt  upon  the  vision,  very  loth  to  leave  it ;  and 
after  my  eyes  had  lost  it,  my  heart  clung  to  it,  — 
there,  where  my  memory  clings  now. 

At  noon,  the  carriage  stopped  upon  the  hills 
toward  Soracte,  that  overlooked  Rome.  There  was 
a  stunted  pine-tree  grew  a  little  way  from  the  road, 
and  I  sat  down  under  it,  —  for  I  wished  no  dinner, 
—  and  I  looked  back  with  strange  tumult  of  feeling 
upon  the  sleeping  city,  with  the  gfay,  billowy  sea  of 
the  Campagna  lying  around  it. 

I  seemed  to  see  Enrica  —  the  Roman  girl  —  in 
that  morning-dress,  with  her  brown  hair  in  its 
silken  fillet ;  but  the  rose-bud,  that  was  in  her 
bosom,  was  now  in  mine.  Her  silvery  voice  too 
seemed  to  float  past  me,  bearing  snatches  of  Roman 
songs  ;  but  the  songs  were  sad  and  broken. 

After  all,  this  is  sad  vanity  !  thought  I  ;  and 

yet  if  I  had  espied  thjen  some  returning  carriage 


2io  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

going  down  toward  Rome,  I  will  not  say  —  but  that 
I  should  have  hailed  it,  and  taken  a  place,  and  gone 
back,  and  to  this  day,  perhaps — have  lived  at 
Rome. 

But  the  vetturino  called  me ;  the  coach  was 
ready  ;  I  gave  one  more  look  toward  the  dome  that 
guarded  the  sleeping  city;  and  then  we  galloped 
down  the  mountain  on  the  road  that  lay  toward 
Perugia  and  Lake  Thrasimene. 

Sweet  Enrica  !  art  thou  living  yet  ?  Or  hast 

thou  passed  away  to  that  Silent  Land  where  the 
good  sleep  and  the  beautiful  ? 


The  visions  of  the  Past  fade.  The  morning 
breeze  has  died  upon  the  meadow  ;  the  Bob  -  o'  - 
Lincoln  sits  swaying  upon  the  willow-tufts,  singing 
no  longer.  The  trees  lean  to  the  brook  ;  but  the 
shadows  fall  straight  and  dense  upon  the  silver 
stream. 

NOON  has  broken  into  the  middle  sky ;  and 
MORNING  is  gone. 


Noon. 

f  |1HE  Noon  is  short ;  the  sun  never  loiters  on  the 
-»-  meridian,  nor  does  the  shadow  on  the  old 
dial  by  the  garden  stay  long  at  XII.  The  Present, 
like  the  noon,  is  only  a  point ;  and  a  point  so  fine, 
that  it  is  not  measurable  by  the  grossness  of  action. 
Thought  alone  is  delicate  enough  to  tell  the  breadth 
of  the  Present. 

The  Past  belongs  to  God  ;  the  Present  only  is 
ours.  And  short  as  it  is,  there  is  more  in  it  and  of 
it  than  we  can  well  manage.  That  man  who  can 
grapple  it,  and  measure  it,  and  fill  it  with  his  pur 
pose,  is  doing  a  man's  work  ;  none  can  do  more  ; 
but  there  are  thousands  who  do  less. 

Short  as  it  is,  the  Present  is  great  and  strong,  — 
as  much  stronger  than  the  Past  as  fire  than  ashes, 


212  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

or  as  Death  than  the  grave.  The  noon  sun  will 
quicken  vegetable  life  that  in  the  morning  was 
dead.  It  is  hot  and  scorching  ;  I  feel  it  now  upon 
my  head  ;  but  it  does  not  scorch  and  heat  like  the 
bewildering  Present.  There  are  no  oak-leaves  to 
interrupt  the  rays  of  the  burning  Now.  Its 
shadows  do  not  fall  east  or  west :  like  the  noon,  the 
shade  it  makes  falls  straight  from  sky  to  earth,  — 
straight  from  Heaven  to  Hell. 

Memory  presides  over  the  Past ;  Action  presides 
over  the  Present.  The  first  lives  in  a  rich  temple 
hung  with  glorious  trophies  and  lined  with  tombs ; 
the  other  has  no  shrine  but  Duty,  and  it  walks  the 
earth  like  a  spirit. 

—  I  called  my  dog  to  me,  and  we  shared  to 
gether  the  meal  that  I  had  brought  away  at  sunrise 
from  the  mansion  under  the  elms ;  and  now  Carlo 
is  gnawing  at  the  bone  that  I  have  thrown  to  him, 
and  I  stroll  dreamily  in  the  quiet  noon  atmosphere 
upon  that  grassy  knoll  under  the  oaks. 

Noon  in  the  country  is  very  still :  the  birds  do 
not  sing ;  the  workmen  are  not  in  the  field ;  the 
sheep  lay  their  noses  to  the  ground  ;  and  the  herds 
stand  in  pools  under  shady  trees,  lashing  their 
sides,  but  otherwise  motionless.  The  mills  upon 
the  brook  far  above  have  ceased  for  an  hour  their 
labor  ;  and  the  stream  softens  its  rustle,  and  sinka 


NOON.  213 

away  from  the  sedgy  banks.  The  heat  plays  upon 
the  meadow  in  noiseless  waves,  and  the  beech-leaves 
do  not  stir. 

Thought,  I  said,  was  the  only  measure  of  the 
Present ;  and  the  stillness  of  Noon  breeds  thought, 
and  my  thought  brings  up  the  old  compan 
ions,  and  stations  them  in  the  domain  of  Now. 
Thought  ranges  over  the  world,  and  brings  up 
hopes  and  fears  and  resolves  to  measure  the  burn 
ing  Now.  Joy,  and  grief,  and  purpose,  blending  in 
my  thought,  give  breadth  to  the  Present. 

—  Where,  thought  I,  is  little  Isabel  now  ?  Where 
is  Lilly  ;  where  is  Ben  ?  Where  is  Leslie  ;  where  is 
my  old  teacher?  Where  is  my  chum  who  played 
such  rare  tricks  ?  Where  is  the  black-eyed  Jane  ? 
Where  is  that  sweet-faced  girl  whom  I  parted  with 
upon  the  terrace  looking  down  upon  the  old  spire 
of  Modbury  church  ?  Where  are  my  hopes  ;  where 
my  purposes  ;  where  my  sorrows  ? 

I  care  not  who  you  are,  but  if  you  bring  such 
thought  to  measure  the  Present,  the  Present  will 
seem  broad ;  and  it  will  be  sultry  as  Noon,  and 
make  a  fever  of  Now. 


214  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Early  Friends. 

WHERE  are  they  ? 

I  cannot  sit  now,  as  once,  upon  the  edge  of  the 
brook  hour  after  hour,  flinging  off  my  line  and  hook 
to  the  nibbling  roach,  and  reckon  it  great  sport. 
There  is  no  girl  with  auburn  ringlets  to  sit  beside 
me,  and  to  play  upon  the  bank.  The  hours  are 
shorter  than  they  were  then  ;  and  the  little  joys 
that  furnished  boyhood  tih1  the  heart  was  full,  can 
fill  it  no  longer.  Poor  Tray  is  dead  long  ago,  and 
he  cannot  swim  into  the  pools  for  the  floating 
sticks  ;  nor  can  I  sport  with  him  hour  after  hour, 
and  think  it  happiness.  The  mound  that  covers  his 
grave  is  sunken,  and  the  trees  that  shaded  it  are 
broken  and  mossy. 

Little  Lilly  is  grown  into  a  woman,  and  is  mar 
ried  ;  and  she  has  another  little  Lilly,  with  flaxen 
hair,  she  says,  —  looking  as  she  used  to  look.  I 
dare  say  the  child  is  pretty  ;  but  it  is  not  my  Lilly. 
She  has  a  little  boy,  too,  that  she  calls  Paul,  —  a 
chubby  rogue,  she  writes,  and  as  mischievous  as 
ever  I  was.  God  bless  the  boy  ! 

Ben,  who  would  have  liked  to  ride  in  the  coach 
that  carried  me  away  to  school,  has  had  a  great 
many  rides  since  then,  —  rough  rides,  and  hard 
ones,  over  the  road  of  Life.  He  does  not  rake  up 


NOON.  215 

the  falling  leaves  for  bonfires,  as  lie  did  once  ;  be  is 
grown  a  man,  and  is  fighting  his  way  somewhere  in 
our  western  world  to  the  short-lived  honors  of  time. 
He  was  married  not  long  ago  ;  his  wife  I  remembered 
as  one  of  my  playmates  at  my  first  school ;  she  was 
beautiful,  but  fragile  as  a  leaf.  She  died  within  a 
year  of  their  marriage.  Ben  was  but  four  years 
my  senior,  but  this  grief  has  made  him  ten  years 
older.  He  does  not  say  it,  but  his  eye  and  his  figure 
tell  it. 

The  nurse,  who  put  the  purse  in  my  hand  that 
dismal  morning,  is  grown  a  feeble  old  woman.  She 
was  over  fifty  then ;  she  may  well  be  seventy  now. 
She  did  not  know  my  voice  when  I  went  to  see  her 
the  other  day,  nor  did  she  know  my  face  at  all.  She 
repeated  the  name  when  I  told  it  to  her:  "Paul, 
Paul,"  —  she  did  not  remember  any  Paul  except  a 
little  boy,  a  long  while  ago. 

"  To  whom  you  gave  a  purse  when  he  went 

away,  and  told  him  to  say  nothing  to  Lilly  or  to 
Ben  ?  " 

"Yes,  that  Paul,"  says  the  old  woman,  exultingly  ; 
"  do  you  know  him?  " 

And  when  I  told  her,  —  "  she  would  not  have  be 
lieved  it !  "  But  she  did,  and  took  hold  of  my  hand 
again  (for  she  was  blind)  ;  and  then  smoothed  down 
the  plaits  of  her  apron,  and  jogged  her  cap-strings, 


216  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

to  look  tidy  in  the  presence  of  "the  gentleman." 
And  she  told  me  long  stories  about  the  old  house, 
and  how  other  people  came  in  afterward ;  and  she 
called  me  "  Sir"  sometimes,  and  sometimes  "Paul." 
But  I  asked  her  to  say  only  Paul ;  she  seemed  glad 
for  this,  and  talked  easier ;  and  went  on  to  tell  of  my 
old  playmates,  and  how  we  used  to  ride  the  pony, — 
poor  Jacko !  —  and  how  we  gathered  nuts,  —  such 
heaping  piles ;  and  how  we  used  to  play  at  fox-and- 
geese  through  the  long  winter  evenings  ;  and  how 
my  poor  mother  would  smile  —  —  but  here  I  asked 
her  to  stop.  She  could  not  have  gone  on  much 
longer,  for  I  believe  she  loved  our  house  and  people 
better  than  she  loved  her  own. 

As  for  my  uncle,  the  cold,  silent  man,  who  lived 
with  his  books  in  the  house  oipon  the  hill,  and  who 
used  to  frighten  me  sometimes  with  his  look,  he 
grew  very  feeble  after  I  had  left,  and  almost  crazed. 
The  country-people  said  that  he  was  mad  ;  and  Isa 
bel  with  her  sweet  heart  clung  to  him,  and  would 
lead  him  out,  when  his  step  tottered,  to  the  seat  in 
the  garden,  and  read  to  him  out  of  the  books  he 
loved  to  hear.  •  And  sometimes,  they  told  me,  she 
would  read  to  him  some  letters  that  I  had  written 
to  Lilly  or  to  Ben,  and  ask  him  if  he  remembered 
Paul,  who  saved  her  from  drowning  under  the  tree 
in  the  meadow  ?  But  he  could  only  shake  his  head, 


NOON.  217 

and  mutter  something  about  how  old  and  feeble  he 
had  grown. 

They  wrote  me  afterward  that  he  died  ;  and  was 
buried  in  a  far-away  place,  where  his  wife  once  lived, 
and  where  he  now  sleeps  beside  her.  Isabel  was 
sick  with  grief,  and  came  to  live  for  a  time  with 
Lilly ;  but  when  they  wrote  me  last,  she  had  gone 
back  to  her  old  home,  —  where  Tray  was  buried,  — 
where  we  had  played  together  so  often  through  the 
long  days  of  summer. 

I  was  glad  I  should  find  her  there  when  I  came 
back.  Lilly  and  Ben  were  both  living  nearer  to  the 
city  when  I  landed  from  my  long  journey  over  the 
seas  ;  but  still  I  went  to  find  Isabel  first.  Perhaps 
I  had  heard  so  much  oftener  from  the  others  that  I 
felt  less  eager  to  see  them  ;  or  perhaps  I  wanted  to 
save  my  best  visits  to  the  last ;  or  perhaps  (I  did 
think  it)  —  perhaps  I  loved  Isabel  better  than  them 
all. 

So  I  went  into  the  country,  thinking  all  the  way 
how  she  must  have  changed  since  I  left.  She  must 
be  now  nineteen  or  twenty  ;  and  then  her  grief 
must  have  saddened  her  face  somewhat ;  but  I 
thought  I  should  like  her  all  the  better  for  that. 
Then  perhaps  she  would  not  laugh,  and  tease  me, 
but  would  be  quieter,  and  wear  a  sweet  smile,  —  so 
calm  and  beautiful,  I  thought.  Her  figure  too  must 


218  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

have  grown  more  elegant,  and  she  would  have  more 
dignity  in  her  air. 

I  shuddered  a  little  at  this  ;  for  I  thought,  —  she 
will  hardly  think  so  much  of  me  then  ;  perhaps  she 
will  have  seen  those  whom  she  likes  a  great  deal 
better.  Perhaps  she  will  not  like  me  at  all ;  yet  I 
knew  very  well  that  I  should  like  her. 

I  had  gone  up  almost  to  the  house  ;  I  had  passed 
the  stream  where  we  fished  on  that  day,  many  years 
before  ;  and  I  thought  that  now  since  she  was  grown 
to  womanhood,  I  should  never  sit  with  her  there 
again,  and  surely  never  drag  her  as  I  did  out  of  the 
water,  and  never  chafe  her  little  hands,  and  never 
perhaps  kiss  her  as  I  did  when  she  sat  upon  my 
mother's  lap,  —  oh,  no  —  no  —  no  ! 

I  saw  where  we  buried  Tray,  but  the  old  slab  was 
gone  ;  there  was  no  ribbon  there  now.  I  thought 
that  at  least  Isabel  would  have  replaced  the  slab  ; 
but  it  was  a  wrong  thought.  I  trembled  when  I 
went  up  to  the  door  ;  for  it  flashed  upon  me,  that 
perhaps  Isabel  was  married.  I  could  not  tell  why 
she  should  not ;  but  I  knew  it  would  make  me  un 
comfortable  to  hear  that  she  had. 

There  was  a  tall  woman,  who  opened  the  door  ; 
she  did  not  know  me  ;  but  I  recognized  her  as  one 
of  the  old  servants.  I  asked  after  the  housekeeper 
first,  thinking  I  would  surprise  Isabel.  My  heart 


NOON.  219 

fluttered  somewhat,  thinking  that  she  might  step  in 
suddenly  herself,  or  perhaps  that  she  might  have 
seen  me  coming  up  the  hill.  But  even  then,  I 
thought,  she  would  hardly  know  me. 

Presently  the  housekeeper  came  in,  looking  very 
grave  ;  she  asked  if  the  gentleman  wished  to  see 
her? 

The  gentleman  did  wish  it,  and  she  sat  down  on 
one  side  of  the  fire  ;  for  it  was  autumn,  and  the 
leaves  were  falling,  and  the  November  winds  were 
very  chilly. 

Shall  I  tell  her,  thought  I,  who  I  am,  or  ask 

at  once  for  Isabel  ?  I  tried  to  ask  ;  but  it  was  hard 
for  me  to  call  her  name  ;  it  was  very  strange,  but  I 
could  not  pronounce  it  at  all. 

"  Who,  sir  ?  "  said  the  housekeeper,  in  a  tone  so 
earnest  that  I  rose  at  once,  and  crossed  over,  and 
took  her  hand:  "You  know  me,"  said  I,  —  "you 
surely  remember  Paul  ?  " 

She  started  with  surprise,  but  recovered  herself 
and  resumed  the  same  grave  manner.  I  thought  I 
had  committed  some  mistake,  or  been  in  some  way 
cause  of  offence.  I  called  her  "  Madam,"  and  asked 
for  —  Isabel. 

She  turned  pale,  terribly  pale  ;  "  Bella?  "  said  she. 

"  Yes,  Bella." 

"Sir,  Bella  is  dead!" 


220  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

I  dropped  into  my  chair.  I  said  nothing.  The 
housekeeper  —  bless  her  kind  heart  —  slipped  noise 
lessly  out.  My  hands  were  over  my  eyes.  The 
winds  were  sighing  outside,  and  the  clock  ticking 
mournfully  within. 

I  did  not  sob,  nor  weep,  nor  utter  any  cry. 

The  clock  ticked  mournfully,,  and  the  winds  were 
sighing  ;  but  I  did  not  hear  them  any  longer ;  there 
was  a  tempest  raging  within  me,  that  would  have 
drowned  the  voice  of  thunder. 

It  broke  at  length  in  a  long,  deep  sigh  :  "  O 
God  !  "  It  may  have  been  a  prayer  ;  it  was  not  an 
imprecation. 

Bella  —  sweet  Bella  was  dead  !  It  seemed  as  if 
with  her  half  the  world  were  dead,  —  every  bright 
face  darkened,  —  every  sunshine  blotted  out,  — 
eveiy  flower  withered,  —  every  hope  extinguished. 

I  walked  out  into  the  air  and  stood  under  the 
trees  where  we  had  played  together  with  poor 
Tray,  —  where  Tray  lay  buried.  But  it  was  not 
Tray  I  thought  of;  as  I  stood  there,  with  the  cold 
wind  playing  through  the  trees,  and  my  eyes  fill 
ing  with  tears.  How  could  she  die  ?  Why  was  she 
gone  ?  Was  it  really  true  ?  Was  Isabel  indeed 
dead,  —  in  her  coffin,  —  buried  ?  Then  why  should 
anybody  live  ?  What  was  there  to  live  for  now  that 
Bella  was  gone  ? 


NOON.  221 

Ah,  what  a  gap  in  the  world  is  made  by  the  death 
of  those  we  love !  It  is  no  longer  whole,  but  a  poor 
half-world,  that  swings  uneasy  on  its  axis,  and 
makes  one  dizzy  with  the  clatter  of  its  wreck. 

The  housekeeper  told  me  all,  little  by  little,  as  I 
found  calmness  to  listen.  She  had  been  dead  a 
month.  Lilly  was  with  her  through  it  all ;  she 
died  sweetly,  without  pain,  and  without  fear,  — 
what  can  angels  fear?  She  had  spoken  often  of 
"  Cousin  Paul "  ;  she  had  left  a  little  packet  for 
him,  but  it  was  not  there  ;  she  had  given  it  into 
Lilly's  keeping. 

Her  grave,  the  housekeeper  told  me,  was  only  a 
little  way  off  from  her  home,  —  beside  the  grave  of 
a  brother  who  died  long  years  before.  I  went 
there  that  evening.  The  mound  was  high  and 
fresh.  The  sods  had  not  closed  together,  and  the 
dry  leaves  caught  in  the  crevices,  and  gave  a  ragged 
and  a  terrible  look  to  the  spot.  The  next  day  I 
laid  them  all  smooth,  —  as  we  had  once  laid  them 
on  the  grave  of  Tray  ;  I  clipped  the  long  grass,  and 
set  a  tuft  of  late  blooming,  bird-foot  violets  upon 
the  mound.  The  homestead,  the  trees,  the  fields,  the 
meadows,  in  the  windy  November,  looked  dismally. 
I  could  not  like  them  again  ;  I  liked  nothing  —  but 
the  little  mound  I  had  dressed  over  Bella's  grave. 
There  she  sleeps  now,  —  the  sleep  of  Death. 


222  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

School  Revisited. 

THE  old  school  is  there  still,  with  the  high  cupola 
upon  it,  and  the  long  galleries,  with  the  sleeping- 
rooms  opening  out  on  either  side,  and  the  corner 
one  where  I  slept.  But  the  boys  are  not  there,  nor 
the  old  teachers.  They  have  ploughed  up  the  play 
ground  to  plant  corn  ;  and  the  apple-tree  with  the 
low  limb,  that  made  our  gymnasium,  is  cut  down. 

I  was  there  only  a  little  time  ago.  It  was  on  a 
Sunday.  One  of  the  old  houses  of  the  village  had 
been  fashioned  into  an  inn,  and  it  was  there  I 
stopped.  But  I  strolled  by  the  old  tavern,  and 
looked  into  the  bar-room,  where  I  used  to  gaze 
with  wonder  upon  the  enormous  pictures  of  wild 
animals,  which  heralded  some  coming  menagerie. 
There  was  just  such  a  picture  hanging  there  still, 
and  two  or  three  advertisements  of  sheriffs,  and  a 
little  bill  of  a  "  horse  stolen,"  and  as  I  thought, 
the  same  brown  pitcher  on  the  edge  of  the  bar.  I 
was  sure  it  was  the  same  great  wood-box  that  stood 
by  the  fireplace,  and  the  same  whip  and  great-coat 
seemed  to  me  to  be  hanging  in  the  corner. 

I  was  not  in  so  gay  a  costume  as  I  once  thought 
I  would  be  wearing,  when  a  man  ;  I  had  nothing 
better  than  a  rusty  shooting- jacket ;  but  even  with 
this  I  was  determined  to  have  a  look  about  the 


NOON.  223 

church,  and  see  if  I  could  trace  any  of  the  faces  of 
old  times.  They  had  sadly  altered  the  building  ; 
they  had  cut  out  its  long  galleries,  and  its  old- 
fashioned  square  pews,  and  filled  it  with  narrow 
boxes,  as  they  do  in  the  city.  The  pulpit  was  not 
so  high,  or  grand;  and  it  was  covered  over  with 
the  work  of  the  cabinet-makers. 

I  missed,  too,  the  old  preacher  whom  we  all 
feared  so  much  ;  and  in  place  of  him  was  a  jaunty- 
looking  man,  whom  I  thought  I  would  not  be  at  all 
afraid  to  speak  to,  or  if  need  be,  to  slap  on  the 
shoulder.  And  when  I  did  meet  him  after  church, 
I  looked  him  in  the  eye  as  boldly  as  a  lion  ;  —  what 
a  change  was  that  from  the  school-days  ! 

Here  and  there  I  could  detect  about  the  church 
some  old  farmer,  by  the  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  or 
by  a  particular  twist  in  his  nose  ;  and  one  or  two 
young  fellows,  who  used  to  storm  into  the  gallery 
in  my  school-days,  in  very  gay  jackets  dressed  off 
with  ribbons,  —  which  we  thought  was  astonishing 
heroism,  and  admired  accordingly,  —  were  now  set 
tled  down  into  fathers  of  families,  and  looked  as 
demure  and  peaceable  at  the  head  of  their  pews, 
with  a  white-headed  boy  or  two  between  them  and 
their  wives,  as  if  they  had  been  married  all  their  days. 

There  was  a  stout  man,  too,  with  a  slight  limp  in 
his  gait,  who  used  to  work  on  harnesses,  and  strap 


224  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

our  skates,  and  who  I  always  thought  would  have 
made  a  capital  Vulcan  ;  he  stalked  up  the  aisle  past 
me  as  if  I  had  my  skates  strapped  at  his  shop  only 
yesterday. 

The  bald-pated  shoemaker,  who  never  kept  his 
word,  and  who  worked  in  the  brick  shop,  and  who 
had  a  son  called  Theodore,  —  which  we  all  thought 
a  very  pretty  name  for  a  shoemaker's  son,  —  I 
could  not  find.  I  feared  he  might  be  dead.  I 
hoped,  if  he  was,  that  his  broken  promises  about 
patching  boots  would  not  come  up  against  him. 

The  old  factor  of  tamarinds  and  sugar- crackers, 
who  used  to  drive  his  covered  wagon  every  Satur 
day  evening  into  the  play-ground,  I  observed,  still 
holding  his  place  in  the  village  choir,  and  singing  — 
though  with  a  tooth  or  two  gone  —  as  serenely  and 
obstreperously  as  ever. 

I  looked  around  the  church  to  find  the  black-eyed 
girl,  who  always  sat  behind  the  choir,  —  the  one  I 
loved  to  look  at  so  much.  I  knew  she  must  be 
grown  up  ;  but  I  could  fix  upon  no  face  positively  ; 
once,  as  a  stout  woman  with  a  pair  of  boys,  and 
who  wore  a  big  red  shawl,  turned  half-round,  I 
thought  I  recognized  her  nose.  If  it  was  she,  it 
had  grown  red  though,  and  I  felt  cured  of  my  old 
fondness.  As  for  the  other,  who  wore  the  hat 
trimmed  with  fur,  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 


NOON.  225 

among  either  maids  or  matrons  ;  and  when  T  asked 
the  tavern-keeper,  and  described  her  and  her  father 
as  they  were  in  my  school-days,  he  told  me  that  she 
had  married  too,  and  lived  some  five  miles  from  the 
village  ;  and,  said  he,  "  I  guess  she  leads  her  hus 
band  a  devil  of  a  life  !  " 

I  felt  cured  of  her  too  ;  but  I  pitied  the  husband. 

One  of  my  old  teachers  was  in  the  church ;  I 
could  have  sworn  to  his  face  ;  he  was  a  precise  man, 
and  now  I  thought  he  looked  rather  roughly  at  my 
old  shoo  ting- jacket.  But  I  let  him  look,  and  scowled 
at  him  a  little  ;  for  I  remembered  that  he  had 
feruled  me  once.  I  thought  it  was  not  probable 
that  he  would  ever  do  it  again. 

There  was  a  bustling  little  lawyer  in  the  village, 
who  lived  in  a  large  house,  and  who  was  the  great 
man  of  that  town  and  country :  he  had  scarce 
changed  at  all ;  and  he  stepped  into  the  church  as 
briskly  and  promptly  as  he  did  ten  years  ago.  But 
what  struck  me  most  was  the  change  in  a  couple  of 
pretty  little  white-haired  girls  that  at  the  time  I  left 
were  of  that  uncertain  age  when  the  mother  lifts 
them  on  a  Sunday,  and  pounces  them  down  one 
after  the  other  upon  the  seat  of  the  pew  ;  —  these 
were  now  grown  into  blooming  young  ladies.  And 
they  swept  by  me  in  the  vestibule  of  the  church,  with 
a  flutter  of  robes  and  a  grace  of  motion  that  fairly 
15 


226  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

made  my  heart  twitter  in  my  bosom.  I  know  noth 
ing  that  brings  home  upon  a  man  so  quick  the  con 
sciousness  of  increasing  years,  as  to  find  the  little 
prattling  girls,  that  were  almost  babies  in  his  boy 
hood,  become  dashing  ladies  ;  and  to  find  those 
whom  he  used  to  look  on  patronizingly  and  compas 
sionately —  thinking  they  were  little  girls  —  grown  to 
such  maturity  that  the  mere  rustle  of  their  silk  dress 
will  give  him  a  twinge,  and  their  eyes,  if  he  looks 
at  them,  make  him  unaccountably  shy. 

After  service  I  strolled  up  by  the  school-build 
ings  ;  I  traced  the  names  that  we  had  cut  upon  the 
fence ;  but  the  fence  had  grown  brown  with  age, 
and  was  nearly  rotted  away.  Upon  the  beech-tree 
in  the  hollow  behind  the  school,  the  carvings  were 
all  overgrown.  It  must  have  been  vacation,  if  in 
deed  there  was  any  school  at  all ;  for  I  could  see 
only  one  old  woman  about  the  premises,  and  she 
was  hanging  out  a  dish-cloth  to  dry  in  the  sun.  I 
passed  on  up  the  hill,  beyond  the  buildings  where, 
in  the  boy-days,  we  built  stone  forts  with  bastions 
and  turrets  ;  but  the  farmers  had  put  bastions  and 
turrets  into  their  cobble-stone  walls.  At  the  or 
chard-fence  I  stopped  and  looked  —  from  force,  I 
believe,  of  old  habit  —  to  see  if  any  one  were  watch 
ing,  and  then  leaped  over,  and  found  my  way  to  the 
early  apple  tree  ;  but  the  fruit  had  gone  by.  It 


NOON.  f  227 

seemed  very  daring  in  me,  even  then,  to  walk  so 
boldly  in  the  forbidden  ground. 

But  the  old  head-master,  who  forbade  it,  was 
dead  ;  and  Kussell  and  Burgess,  and  I  know  not 
how  many  others,  who  in  other  times  were  culprits 
with  me,  were  dead  too.  When  I  passed  back  by 
the  school,  I  lingered  to  look  up  at  the  windows 
of  that  corner-room  where  I  had  slept  the  sound, 
healthful  sleep  of  boyhood  ;  and  where,  too,  I  had 
passed  many,  many  wakeful  hours,  thinking  of  the 
absent  Bella  and  of  my  home. 

How  small  seem  now  the  great  griefs  of  boy 
hood  !  Light,  floating  clouds  will  obscure  the  sun 
that  is  but  half  risen  ;  but  let  him  be  up  mid- 
heaven,  and  the  cloud  that  then  darkens  the  land 
must  be  thick  and  heavy  indeed. 

Was  not  such  a  cloud  over  me  now  ? 

College. 

ScHOOLMATES-slip  out  of  sight  and  knowledge,  and 
are  forgotten ;  or  if  you  meet  them,  they  bear 
another  character ;  the  boy  is  not  there.  It  is  a 
new  acquaintance  that  you  make,  with  nothing  of 
your  fellow  upon  the  benches- but  the  name.  Though 
the  eye  and  face  cleave  to  your  memory,  and  you 
meet  them  afterward  and  think  you  have  met  a 


228  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

friend,  the  voice  or  the  action-will  break  down  the 
charm,  and  you  find  only  —  another  man. 

But  with  your  classmates  in  that  later  school, 
where  form- and  character—were  both  nearer  ripe 
ness,  and  where  knowledger- labored  for  together, 
bred  the  first  manly  sympathies,-it  is  different.  And 
as  you  meet  them  or  hear  of  them,  the  thought-  of 
their  advance  makes  a  measure  of  your  own,  —  it 
makes  a  measure  of  the  Now. 

You  judge  of  your  happiness- by  theirs  ;  of  your 
progress-by  theirs  ;  and  of  your  prospects  by  theirs. 
If  one  is  happy,  you  seek  to  trace  out  the  way  by 
which  he  has  wrought  his  happiness  ;  you  consider 
how  it  differs  from  your  own ;  and  you  think  with 
vain  regrets  how  you  might  possibly  have  wrought 
the  same,  but  now  it  has  escaped.  If  another-  has 
won  some  honorable-distinction,  you  fall  to  thinking 
how  the  man  —  your  old  equal,  as  you  thought, 
upon  the  college-benches  —  has  outrun  you.  It 
pricks  to  effort,  and  teaches  the  difference  between 
Now-and  Then.  Life -with  all  its  duties  -and  hopes 
gathers  upon  your  Present-like  a  great  weight,  or 
like  a  storm, ready  to  burst.  It  is  met  anew;  it 
pleads -more  strongly;  and  action,*- that  has  been 
neglected,  rises  before  you,  a  giant  of  remorse. 

Stop  not,-  loiter  not,-  look  not  backward,-  if  you 
would  be  among  the  foremost.  The  great  Now  — 


NOON.  229 

so  quick,-  so  broad,  so  fleeting  —  is  yours;  in  an 
hour-it  will  belong  to  the  Eternity~of  the  Past.  The 
temper  of  Life-is  to  be  made  good -by  big,  honest  - 
blows ;  stop  striking-  and  you  will  do  nothing ; 
strike  feebly,  and  you  will  do  almost  as  little.  Suc 
cess-rides  on  every  hour ;  grapple  it,  and  you  may 
win  ;  but  without  a  grapple  •  it  will  never  go  with 
you.  Work-is  the  weapon-of  honor,  and  who  lacks 
the  weapon -will  never  triumph. 

There  were  some  seventy  of  us,  —  all  scattered 
now.  I  meet  one  here  and  there  at  wide  distances 
apart ;  and  we  talk  together  of  old  days,  and  of  our 
present  work  and  life,  —  and  separate.  Just  so 
ships  at  sea,  in  murky  weather,  will  shift  their 
course  to  come  within  hailing  distance,  and  com 
pare  their  longitude,  and  —  part.  One  I  have  met 
wandering  in  Southern  Italy  dreaming  as  I  was 
dreaming,  —  over  the  tomb  of  Virgil  by  the  dark 
grotto  of  Posilipo.  It  seemed  strange  to  talk  of 
our  old  readings  in  Tacitus  there  upon  classic 
ground ;  but  we  did ;  and  ran  on  to  talk  of  our 
lives ;  and  sitting  down  upon  the  promontory  of 
Baise,  looking  off  upon  that  blue  sea,  as  clear  as  the 
classics,  we  told  each  other  our  respective  stories. 
And  two  nights  after,  upon  the  quay,  in  sight  of 
Vesuvius,  which  shed  a  lurid  glow  upon  the  sky, 
that  was  reflected  from  the  white  walls  of  the  Hotel 


230  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

de  Kussie,  and  from  the  broad  lava  pavements,  we 
parted,  —  be  to  wander  among  the  isles  of  the 
2Egean,  and  I  to  turn  northward. 

Another  time,  as  I  was  wandering  among  those 
mysterious  figures  that  crowd  the  foyer  of  the 
French  opera  upon  a  night  of  the  masked  ball,  I 
saw  a  familiar  face  ;  I  followed  it  with  my  eye,  until 
I  became  convinced  of  the  identity  of  a  college 
friend.  He  did  not  know  me,  until  I  named  his  old 
seat  upon  the  bench  of  the  division-room,  and  the 

hard-faced  Tutor  G .  Then  we  talked  of  the 

old  rivalries,  and  Christmas  jollities,  and  of  this  and 
that  one,  whom  we  had  come  upon  in  our  wayward 
tracks,  while  the  black-robed  grisettes  stared  at  us 
through  their  velvet  masks  ;  nor  did  we  tire  of  com 
paring  the  old  memories  with  the  unearthly  gayety 
of  the  scene  about  us,  until  daylight  broke. 

In  a  quiet  mountain  town  of  New  England  I  came 
not  long  since  upon  another ;  he  was  hale  and 
hearty  and  pushing  his  lawyer  work  with  just  the 
same  nervous  energy  with  which  he  used  to  recite  a 
theorem  of  Euclid.  He  was  father,  too,  of  a  couple 
of  stout,  curly-pated  boys  ;  and  his  good  woman,  as 
he  called  her,  appeared  a  sensible,  honest,  good- 
natured  lady.  I  must  say  that  I  envied  him  his 
wife,  much  more  than  I  had  envied  my  companion 
of  the  opera  —  his  domino. 


NOON.  231 

I  happened  only  a  little  while  ago  to  drop  into 
the  college  chapel  of  a  Sunday.  There  were  the 
same  hard  oak  benches  below,  and  the  lucky  fellows 
who  enjoyed  a  corner  seat  were  leaning  back  upon 
the  rail,  after  the  old  fashion.  The  tutors  were 
perched  up  in  their  side-boxes,  looking  as  prim  and 
serious  and  important  as  ever.  The  same  stout 
Doctor  read  the  hymn  in  the  same  rhythmical  way  ; 
and  he  prayed  the  same  prayer,  for  (I  thought)  the 
same  old  sort  of  sinners.  As  I  shut  my  eyes  to 
listen,  it  seemed  as  if  the  intermediate  years  had  all 
gone  out ;  and  that  I  was  on  my  own  pew-bench, 
and  thinking  out  those  little  schemes  for  excuses, 
or  for  effort,  which  were  to  relieve  me,  or  to  advance 
me,  in  my  college  world. 

There  was  a  pleasure  —  like  the  pleasure  of 
dreaming  about  forgotten  joys  —  in  listening  to  the 
Doctor's  sermon  :  he  began  in  the  same  half  embar 
rassed,  half-  awkward  way  ;  and  fumbled  at  his 
Bible-leaves,  and  the  poor  pinched  cushion,  as  he 
did  long  before.  But  as  he  went  on  with  his 
rusty  and  polemic  vigor,  the  poetry  within  him 
would  now  and  then  warm  his  soul  into  a  burst 
of  fervid  eloquence,  and  his  face  would  glow,  and 
his  hand  tremble,  and  the  cushion  and  the  Bible- 
leaves  be  all  forgot,  in  the  glow  of  his  thought, 
until  with  a  half  cough,  and  a  pinch  at  the  cushion, 


232  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

he  fell  back  into  his  strong  but  tread -mill  argumen 
tation. 

In  the  corner  above  was  the  stately,  white-haired 
professor,  wearing  the  old  dignity  of  carriage,  and  a 
smile  as  bland  as  if  the  years  had  all  been  play 
things  ;  and  had  I  seen  him  in  his  lecture-room,  I 
dare  say  I  should  have  found  the  same  suavity  of 
address,  the  same  marvellous  currency  of  talk,  and 
the  same  infinite  composure  over  the  exploding 
retorts. 

Near  him  was  the  silver-haired  old  gentleman,  — 
with  a  very  astute  expression,  —  who  used  to  have 
an  odd  habit  of  tightening  his  cloak  about  his 
nether  limbs.  I  could  not  see  that  his  eye  was  any 
the  less  bright ;  nor  did  he  seem  less  eager  to  catch 
at  the  handle  of  some  witticism,  or  bit  of  satire, 
to  the  poor  student's  cost.  I  remembered  my  old 
awe  of  him,  I  must  say,  with  something  of  a  grudge  ; 
but  I  had  got  fairly  over  it  now.  There  are  sharper 
griefs  in  life  than  a  professor's  talk. 

Farther  on,  I  saw  the  long-faced,  dark-haired 
man,  who  looked  as  if  he  were  always  near  some 
explosive  electric  battery,  or  upon  an  insulated 
stool.  He  was  I  believe  a  man  of  fine  feelings ; 
but  he  had  a  way  of  reducing  all  action  to  dry, 
hard,  mathematical  system,  with  very  little  poetry 
about  it.  I  know  there  was  not  much  poetry  in  his 


NOON.  233 

problems  in  physics,  and  still  less  in  bis  half-yearly 
examinations.     But  I  do  not  dread  them  now. 

Over  opposite,  I  was  glad  to  see  still  the  aged 
head  of  the  kind  and  generous  old  man,  who,  in  my 
day,  presided  over  the  college,  and  who  carried 
with  him  the  affections  of  each  succeeding  class,  — 
added  to  their  respect  for  his  learning.  This  seems 
a  higher  triumph  to  me  now  than  it  seemed  then. 
A  strong  mind,  or  a  cultivated  mind  may  challenge 
respect ;  but  there  is  needed  a  noble  one  to  win 
affection. 

A  new  man  now  filled  his  place  in  the  president's 
seat ;  but  he  was  one  whom  I  had  known,  and  been 
proud  to  know.  His  figure  was  bent  and  thin,  — 
the  very  figure  that  an  old  Flemish  master  would 
have  chosen  for  a  scholar.  His  eye  had  a  kind  of 
piercing  lustre,  as  if  it  had  long  been  fixed  on 
books ;  and  his  expression  —  when  unrelieved  by 
his  affable  smile  —  was  that  of  hard  midnight  toil. 
"With  all  his  polish  of  mind,  he  was  a  gentleman  at 
heart,  and  treated  us  always  with  a  manly  courtesy 
that  is  not  forgotten. 

But  of  all  the  faces  that  used  to  be  ranged  below, 
—  four  hundred  men  and  boys,  —  there  was  not 
one  with  whom  to  join  hands ,  and  live  back  again. 
Their  griefs,  joys,  and  toil  were  chaining  them  to  their 
respective  labors  of  life.  Each  one  in  his  thought, 


234  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

coursing  over  a  world  as  wide  as  my  own,  —  how 
many  thousand  worlds  of  thought  upon  this  one 
world  of  ours ! 

I  stepped  dreamily  through  the  corridors  of  the 
old  Athenaeum,  thinking  of  that  first  fearful  entrance 
when  the  faces  were  new,  and  the  stern  tutor  was 
strange,  and  the  prolix  Livy  so  hard.  I  went  up  at 
night  and  strolled  around  the  buildings  when  the 
lights  were  blazing  from  all  the  windows,  and  the  stu 
dents  bxisy  with  their  tasks,  —  plain  tasks,  and  easy 
tasks,  because  they  are  certain  tasks.  Happy  fel 
lows,  thought  I,  who  have  only  to  do  what  is  set 
before  you  to  be  done !  But  the  time  is  coming, 
and  very  fast,  when  you  must  not  only  do,  but 
know  what  to  do.  The  time  is  coming  when  in 
place  of  your  one  master  you  will  have  a  thousand 
masters,  —  masters  of  duty,  of  business,  of  pleas 
ure,  and  of  grief,  —  giving  you  harder  lessons,  each 
one  of  them  than  any  of  your  Fluxions. 

MORNING  will  pass,  and  the  NOON  will  come  — 
hot  and  scorching. 

The  Packet  of  Bella. 

I  HAVE  not  forgotton  that  packet  of  Bella  ;  I  did 
not  once  forget  it.  And  when  I  saw  Lilly,  —  now 
the  grown-up  Lilly,  —  happy  in  her  household,  and 


NOON.  235 

blithe  as  when  she  was  a  maiden,  she  gave  it  to  me. 
She  told  me  too  of  Bella's  illness,  and  of  her  suffer- 
ing,  and  of  her  manner,  when  she  put  the  little 
packet  in  her  hand  "  for  Cousin  Paul."  But  this  I 
will  not  repeat,  —  I  cannot. 

I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  I  shuddered  at  the 
mention  of  her  name.  There  are  some  who  will 
talk  at  table,  and  in  their  gossip,  of  dead  friends  ;  I 
wonder  how  they  do  it?  For  myself,  when  the 
grave  has  closed  its  gates  on  the  faces  of  those  I 
love,  however  busy  my  mournful  thought  may  be, 
the  tongue  is  silent.  I  cannot  name  their  names ; 
it  shocks  me  to  hear  them  named.  It  seems  like 
tearing  open  half-healed  wounds,  and  disturbing 
with  harsh,  worldly  noise  the  sweet  sleep  of  Death. 

I  loved  Bella.  I  know  not  how  I  loved  her, 
whether  as  a  lover,  or  as  a  husband  loves  a  wife  ;  I 
only  know  this,  —  I  always  loved  her.  She  was  so 
gentle,  so  beautiful,  so  confiding,  that  I  never  once 
thought  but  that  the  whole  world  loved  her  as  well 
as  I.  There  was  only  one  thing  I  never  told  to 
Bella  :  I  would  tell  her  of  all  my  grief,  and  of  all  my 
joys ;  I  would  tell  her  my  hopes,  my  ambitious 
dreams,  my  disappointments,  my  anger,  and  my  dis 
likes  ;  but  I  never  told  her  how  much  I  loved  her. 

I  do  not  know  why,  unless  I  knew  that  it  was 
needless.  But  'I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of 


236  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

telling  Bella,  on  some  winter's  day,  "  Bella,  it  is 
winter  ; "  —  or  of  whispering  to  her  on  some  balmy 
day  of  August,  "  Bella,  it  is  summer  ; "  —  as  of  tell 
ing  her,  after  she  had  grown  to  girlhood,  "Bella,! 
love  you  ! " 

I  had  received  one  letter  from  her  in  the  old 
countries  ;  it  was  a  sweet  letter,  in  which  she  told 
me  all  that  she  had  been  doing,  and  how  she  had 
thought  of  me  when  she  rambled  over  the  woods 
where  we  had  rambled  together.  She  had  written 
two  or  three  other  letters,  Lilly  told  me,  but  they 
had  never  reached  me.  I  had  told  her,  too,  of  all  that 
made  my  happiness  ;  I  wrote  her  about  the  charming 
young  person  I  had  known  on  shipboard,  and  how  I 
met  her  afterward,  and  what  a  happy  time  we  passed 
down  in  Devon.  I  even  told  her  of  the  strange 
dream  I  had,  in  which  Isabel  seemed  to  be  in  Eng 
land,  and  to  turn  away  from  me  sadly  because  I 
called  her  "Carry." 

I  also  told  her  of  all  I  saw  in  that  great  world  of 
Paris,  writing  as  I  would  write  to  a  sister  ;  and  I 
told  her,  too,  of  the  sweet  Roman  girl,  Enrica,  —  of 
her  brown  hair,  and  of  her  rich  eyes,  and  of  her 
pretty  Carnival  dresses.  And  when  I  missed  letter 
after  letter,  I  told  her  that  she  must  still  write  her 
letters,  or  some  little  journal,  and  read  it  to  me 
when  I  came  back.  I  thought  how  pleasant  it  would 


NOON.  237 

be  to  sit  under  the  trees  by  her  father's  house,  and 
listen  to  her  tender  voice  going  through  that  record 
of  her  thoughts  and  fears.  Alas,  how  our  hopes  be 
tray  us  ! 

It  began  almost  like  a  diary  about  the  time  that 
her  father  fell  sick.  "It  is,"  said  she  to  Lilly, 
when  she  gave  it  to  her,  "what  I  would  have  said 
to  Cousin  Paul,  if  he  had  been  here." 

It  begins  :"...!  have  come  back  now  to  father's 
house  ;  I  could  not  leave  him  alone,  for  they  told  me 
he  was  ill.  I  found  him  not  well ;  he  was  very 
glad  to  see  me,  and  kissed  me  so  tenderly  that  I  am 
sure,  Cousin  Paul,  you  would  not  have  said,  as  you 
used  to  say,  that  he  was  a  cold  man.  I  sometimes 
read  to  him  sitting  in  the  deep  library- window,  (you 
remember  it,)  where  we  used  to  nestle  out  of  his 
sight  at  dusk.  He  cannot  read  any  more. 

"  I  would  give  anything  to  see  the  little  Carry  you 
speak  of ;  but  you  did  not  describe  her  to  me  so 
fully  as  I  would  like  ;  will  you  not  tell  me  if  she 
has  dark  hair,  or  light ;  or  if  her  eyes  are  blue,  or 
dark  like  mine  ?  Is  she  good  ;  did  she  not  make  ugly 
speeches,  or  grow  peevish,  in  those  long  days  upon 
the  ocean  ?  How  I  would  have  liked  to  have  been 
with  you  on  those  clear  starlit  nights,  looking  off 
upon  the  water !  But  then  I  think  that  you  would 


238  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

not  have  wished  me  there,  and  that  you  did  not 
once  think  of  me  even.  This  makes  me  sad  ;  yet  I 
know  not  why  it  should,  for  I  always  liked  you  best 
when  you  were  happy  ;  and  I  am  sure  you  must 
have  been  happy  then.  You  say  you  shall  never 
see  her  after  you  have  left  the  ship  :  you  must  not 
think  so,  Cousin  Paul ;  if  she  is  so  beautiful  and 
fond  as  you  tell  me,  your  own  heart  will  lead 
you  in  her  way  some  time  again  ;  I  feel  almost  sure 
of  it. 

"  Father  is  getting  more  and  more  fee 
ble,  and  wandering  in  his  mind  ;  this  is  very  dread 
ful  ;  he  calls  me  sometimes  by  my  mother's  name  ; 
and  when  I  say,  '  It  is  Isabel/  he  says,  '  What 
Isabel  ? '  and  treats  me  as  if  I  were  a  stranger.  The 
physician  shakes  his  head  when  I  ask  him  of  father. 
Oh,  Paul !  if  he  should  die,  what  could  I  do  ?  I 
should  die  too ;  I  know  I  should.  Who  would 
there  be  to  care  for  me  ?  Lilly  is  married,  and 
Ben  is  far  off,  and  you,  Paul,  whom  I  love  better 
than  either,  are  a  long  way  from  me.  But  God  is 
good,  and  he  will  spare  my  father. 

"So   you   have  seen  again  your  little 

Carry.  I  told  you  it  would  be  so.  You  tell  me 
how  accidental  it  was.  Ah,  Paul,  Paul,  you  rogue .' 


NOON.  239 

honest  as  you  are,  I  half  doubt  you  there.  I  like 
your  description  of  her  too,  —  dark  eyes  like  mine 
you  say,  '  almost  as  pretty.'  Well,  Paul,  I  will 
forgive  you  that ;  it  is  only  a  white  lie.  You  know 
they  must  be  a  great  deal  prettier  than  mine,  or 
you  would  never  have  stayed  a  whole  fortnight  in 
an  old  farmer's  house  far  down  in  Devon.  I  wish  I 
could  see  her  ;  I  wish  she  were  here  with  you  now, 
for  it  is  midsummer,  and  the  trees  and  flowers  were 
never  prettier.  But  I  am  all  alone  ;  father  is  too  ill 
to  go  out  at  all.  I  fear  now  very  much  that  he  will 
never  go  out  again.  Lilly  was  here  yesterday,  but 
he  did  not  know  her.  She  read  me  your  last  let 
ter  ;  it  was  not  so  long  as  mine.  You  are  very, 
very  good  to  me,  Paul. 

"  For  a  long  time  I  have  written  noth 
ing  ;  my  father  has  been  very  ill,  and  the  old 
housekeeper  has  been  sick  too,  and  father  would 
have  no  one  but  me  near  him.  He  cannot  live 
long.  I  feel  sadly,  miserably ;  you  will  not  know 
me  when  you  come  home  ;  your  'pretty  Bella/  as 
you  used  to  call  me,  will  have  lost  all  her  beauty. 
But  perhaps  you  will  not  care  for  that,  for  you  tell 
me  you  have  found  one  prettier  than  ever.  I  do 
not  know,  Cousin  Paul,  but  it  is  because  I  am  so 
sad  and  selfish,  —  for  sorrow  is  selfish,  —  but  I  do 


240  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

not  like  your  raptures  about  the  Roman  girl.  Be 
careful,  Paul.  I  know  your  heart ;  it  is  quick  and 
sensitive  ;  and  I  dare  say  she  is  pretty,  and  has 
beautiful  eyes  ;  for  they  tell  me  all  the  Italian  girls 
have  soft  eyes. 

"  But  Italy  is  far  away,  Paul ;  I  can  never  see  En- 
rica ;  she  will  never  come  here.  No,  no  ;  remem 
ber  Devon  ;  I  feel  as  if  Carry  were  a  sister  now  ;  I 
cannot  feel  so  of  the  Roman  girl ;  I  do  not  want 
to  feel  so.  You  will  say  this  is  harsh  ;  and  I  am 
afraid  you  will  not  like  me  so  well  for  it,  but  I  can 
not  help  saying  it.  I  love  you  too  well,  Cousin 
Paul,  not  to  say  it. 

"  It  is  all   over  !     Indeed,  Paul,-  I  am 

very  desolate  !  '  The  golden  bowl  is  broken  ; '  my 
poor  father  has  gone  to  his  last  home.  I  was  ex 
pecting  it ;  but  how  can  we  expect  that  fearful 
comer  —  Death  ?  He  had  been  for  a  long  time  so 
feeble  that  he  could  scarce  speak  at  all ;  he  sat  for 
hours  in  his  chair,  looking  upon  the  fire,  or  looking 
out  at  the  window.  He  would  hardly  notice  me 
when  I  came  to  change  his  pillows,  or  to  smooth 
them  for  his  head.  But  before  he  died  he  knew  me 
as  well  as  ever.  '  Isabel,'  he  said,  '  you  have  been 
a  good  daughter ;  God  will  reward  you ! '  and  he 
kissed  me  so  tenderly,  and  looked  after  me  so  anx- 


NOON.  241 

iously,  with  such  intelligence  in  his  look,  that  I 
thought  perhaps  he  would  revive  again.  In  the 
evening  he  asked  me  for  one  of  his  books  that  he 
loved  very  much.  'Father/  said  I,  'you  cannot 
read  ;  it  is  almost  dark.' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,'  said  he ;  '  Isabel,  I  can  read  now.' 
And  I  brought  it ;  he  kept  my  hand  a  long  while, 
then  he  opened  the  book ;  it  was  a  book  about 
death. 

"I  brought  a  candle,  for  I  knew  he  could  not 
read  without. 

"  '  Isabel,  dear,'  said  he,  '  put  the  candle  a  little 
nearer.'  But  it  was  close  beside  him  even  then. 

"'A  little  nearer,  Isabel,'  repeated  he,  and  his 
voice  was  very  faint,  and  he  grasped  my  hand  hard. 

—  "  '  Nearer,  Isabel,  —  nearer.' 

"  There  was  no  need  to  do  it,  for  my  poor  father 
was  dead.  Oh !  Paul,  Paul,  pity  me.  I  do  not 
know  but  I  am  crazed.  It  does  not  seem  the  same 
world  it  was.  And  the  house  and  the  trees — oh, 
they  are  very  dismal ! 

"I  wish  you  would  come  home,  Cousin  Paul; 
life  would  not  be  so  very,  very  blank  as  it  is  now. 
Lilly  is  kind  ;  I  thank  her  from  my  heart.  But  if 
is  not  her  father  who  is  dead. 


"  I  am  calmer  now  ;  I  am  staying  with 
16 


2/p  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

Lilly.  The  world  seems  smaller  than  it  did ;  but 
heaven  seems  a  great  deal  larger  ;  there  is  a  place 
for  us  all  there,  Paul,  if  we  only  seek  it.  They  tell 
me  you  are  coming  home  ;  I  am  glad.  You  will 
not  like,  perhaps,  to  come  away  from  that  pretty 
Enrica  you  speak  of  ;  but  do  so,  Paul.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  see  clearer  than  I  did,  and  I  talk  bolder. 
The  girlish  Isabel  you  will  not  find,  for  I  am  much 
older,  and  my  air  is  more  grave  ;  and  this  suffering 
has  made  me  feeble,  very  feeble. 

"  It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  write  ;  but  I 

must  tell  you  that  I  have  just  found  out  who  your 
Carry  is.  Years  ago,  when  you  were  away  from 
home,  I  was  at  school  with  her.  We  were  always 
together.  I  wonder  I  could  not  have  found  her  out 
from  your  description  ;  but  I  did  not  even  suspect 
it.  She  is  a  dear  girl,  and  is  worthy  of  all  your 
love.  I  have  seen  her  once  since  you  have  met  her ; 
we  talked  of  you.  She  spoke  kindly,  very  kindly  ; 
more  than  this  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  I  do  not  know 
more.  Ah,  Paul,  may  you  be  happy :  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  but  a  little  while  to  live. 

"  It  is  even  so,  my  dear  Cousin  Paul : 

I  shall  write  but  little  more  ;  my  hand  trembles 
now.  But  I  am  ready.  It  is  a  glorious  world  be- 


NOON.  243 

yond  this  ;  I  know  it  is.  And  there  we  shall  meet. 
I  did  hope  to  see  you  once  again,  and  to  hear  your 
voice  speaking  to  me  as  you  used  to  speak.  But  I 
shall  not.  Life  is  too  frail  with  me.  I  seem  to  live 
wholly  now  in  the  world  where  I  am  going  ;  there 
is  my  mother,  and  my  father,  and  my  little  brother ; 
we  shall  meet,  I  know  we  .shall  meet. 

"The  last,  Paul.     Never  again  in  thin 

world !  I  am  happy,  very  happy.  You  will  come 
to  me.  I  can  write  no  more.  May  good  angels 
guard  you,  and  bring  you  to  heaven  !  " 

-  Shall  I  go  on  ? 

But  the  toils  of  life  are  upon  me.  Private  griefs 
do  not  break  the  force  and  the  weight  of  the  great 
Present.  A  life  —  at  best  the  half  of  it  —  is  before 
me.  It  is  to  be  wrought  out  with  nerve  and  work. 
And  blessed  be  God  !  there  are  gleams  of  sunlight 
upon  it.  That  sweet  Carry  —  doubly  dear  to  me 
now  that  she  is  joined  with  my  sorrow  for  the  lost 
Isabel  —  shall  be  sought  for. 

And  with  her  sweet  image  floating  before  me,  the 
NOON  wanes,  and  the  shadows  of  EVENING  lengthen 
upon  the  land. 


m. 

Evening. 

THE  Future  is  a  great  land  :  how  the  lights  and 
the  shadows  throng  over  it  —  bright  and  dark, 
slow  and  swift ! 

Pride  and  Ambition  build  up  great  castles  on  its 
plains,  —  great  monuments  on  the  mountains,  that 
reach  heavenward,  and  dip  their  tops  in  the  blue  of 
Eternity.  Then  comes  an  earthquake  —  the  earth 
quake  of  disappointment,  of  distrust,  or  of  inaction 
—  and  lays  them  low.  Gaping  desolation  widens 
its  breaches  everywhere ;  the  eye  is  full  of  them, 
and  can  see  nothing  beside.  By-and-by  the  sun 
peeps  forth  —  as  now  from  behind  yonder  cloud  — 
and  reanimates  the  soul. 

Fame  beckons,  sitting  high  in  the  heavens  ;  and 
joy  lends  a  halo  to  the  vision.  A  thousand  resolves 
stir  your  heart ;  your  hand  is  hot  and  feverish  for 


EVENING.  245 

action  ;  your  brain  works  madly,  and  you  snatch 
here,  and  you  snatch  there,  in  the  convulsive  throes 
of  your  delirium.  Perhaps  you  see  some  earnest, 
careful  plodder,  once  far  behind  you,  now  toiling 
slowly  but  surely  over  the  plain  of  life,  until  he 
seems  near  to  grasping  those  brilliant  phantoms 
which  dance  along  the  horizon  of  the  future  ;  and 
the  sight  stirs  your  soul  to  frenzy,  and  you  bound 
on  after  him  with  the  madness  of  a  fever  in  your 
veins.  But  it  was  by  no  such  action  that  the  fortu 
nate  toiler  has  won  his  progress.  His  hand  is 
steady  ;  his  brain  is  cool ;  his  eye  is  fixed  and  sure. 

The  Future  is  a  great  land ;  a  man  cannot  go 
round  it  in  a  day  ;  he  cannot  measure  it  with  a 
bound  ;  he  cannot  bind  its  harvests  into  a  single 
sheaf.  It  is  wider  than  the  vision,  and  has  no  end. 

Yet  always,  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  second  by 
second,  the  hard  Present  is  elbowing  us  off  into  that 
great  land  of  the  Future.  Our  souls  indeed  wan 
der  to  it  as  to  a  home-land  ;  they  run  beyond  time 
and  space,  beyond  planets  and  suns,  beyond  far-off 
suns  and  comets,  until,  like  blind  flies,  they  are  lost 
in  the  blaze  of  immensity,  and  can  only  grope  their 
way  back  to  our  earth  and  our  time  by  the  cunning 
of  instinct. 

Cut  out  the  Future,  even  that  little  Future  which 
is  the  Evening  of  our  life,  and  what  a  fall  into  vacu- 


246  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

ity !  Forbid  those  earnest  forays  over  the  borders 
of  Now,  and  on  what  spoils  would  the  soul  live  ? 

For  myself,  I  delight  to  wander  there,  and  to 
weave  every  day  the  passing  life  into  the  coming 
life  —  so  closely  that  I  may  be  unconscious  of  the 
joining.  And  if  so  be  that  I  am  able,  I  would  make 
the  whole  piece  bear  fair  proportions  and  just  fig 
ures,  like  those  tapestries  on  which  nuns  work  by 
inches,  and  finish  with  their  lives  :  or  like  those 
grand  frescos  which  poet-artists  have  wrought  on 
the  vaults  of  old  cathedrals,  gaunt  and  colossal,  — 
appearing  mere  daubs  of  carmine  and  azure,  as  they 
lay  upon  their  backs,  working  out  a  hand's-breadth 
at  a  time,  —  but  when  complete,  showing  —  sym 
metrical  and  glorious. 

But  not  alone  does  the  soul  wander  to  those  glit 
tering  heights  where  Fame  sits,  with  plumes  waving 
in  zephyrs  of  applause  ;  there  belong  to  it  other  ap 
petites,  which  range  wide  and  constantly  over  the 
broad  Future-land.  We  are  not  merely  working, 
intellectual  machines,  but  social  puzzles,  whose  solu 
tion  is  the  work  of  a  life.  Much  as  hope  may  lean 
toward  the  intoxicating  joy  of  distinction,  there  is 
another  leaning  in  the  soul,  deeper  and  stronger, 
toward  those  pleasures  which  the  heart  pants  for, 
and  in  whose  atmosphere  the  affections  bloom  and 
ripen. 


EVENING.  247 

The  first  may  indeed  be  uppermost ;  it  may  be 
noisiest ;  it  may  drown  with  the  clamor  of  mid- day 
the  nicer  sympathies.  But  all  our  day  is  not  mid 
day  ;  and  all  our  life  is  not  noise.  Silence  is  as 
strong  as  the  soul ;  and  there  is  no  tempest  so  wild 
with  blasts  but  has  a  wilder  lull.  There  lies  in  the 
depth  of  every  man's  soul  a  mine  of  affection,  which 
from  time  to  time  will  burn  with  the  seething  heat 
of  a  volcano,  and  heave  up  lava-like  monuments 
through  all  the  cold  strata  of  his  commoner 
nature. 

One  may  hide  his  warmer  feelings  ;  he  may  paint 
them  dimly  ;  he  may  crowd  them  out  of  his  sailing- 
chart,  where  he  only  sets  down  the  harbors  for  traf 
fic  ;  yet  in  his  secret  heart  he  will  map  out  upon  the 
great  country  of  the  Future  fairy  islands  of  love  and 
of  joy.  There  he  will  be  sure  to  wander,  when  his 
soul  is  lost  in  those  quiet  and  hallowed  hopes  which 
like  hold  on  heaven. 

Love  only  unlocks  the  door  upon  that  Futurity 
where  the  isles  of  the  blessed  lie  like  stars.  Affec 
tion  is  the  stepping-stone  to  God.  The  heart  is  our 
only  measure  of  infinitude.  The  mind  tires  with 
gi-eatness  ;  the  heart  —  never.  Thought  is  worried 
and  weakened  in  its  flight  through  the  immensity 
of  space  ;  but  Love  soars  around  the  throne  of  the 
Highest  with  added  blessing  and  strength. 


248  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others,  but  with 
me  the  heart  is  a  readier  and  quicker  builder  of 
those  fabrics  which  strew  the  great  country  of  the 
Future  than  the  mind.  They  may  not,  indeed,  rise 
so  high  as  the  dizzy  pinnacles  that  ambition  loves 
to  rear ;  but  they  lie  like  fragrant  islands  in  a  sea 
whose  ripple  is  a  continuous  melody. 

And  as  I  muse  now,  looking  toward  the  Evening, 
which  is  already  begun,  —  tossed  as  I  am  with  the 
toils  of  the  Past,  and  bewildered  with  the  vexations 
of  the  Present,  —  my  affections  are  the  architect  that 
build  up  the  future  refuge.  And  in  fancy  at  least 
I  will  build  it  boldly ;  saddened  it  may  be  by  the 
chance  shadows  of  evening  ;  but  through  all  I  will 
hope  for  a  sunset,  when  the  day  ends,  glorious  with 
crimson  and  gold. 

Carry. 

I  SAID  that,  harsh  and  hot  as  was  the  Present, 
there  were  joyous  gleams  of  light  playing  over  the 
Future.  How  else  could  it  be  when  that  fair  being 
whom  I  met  first  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  and 
whose  name  even  is  hallowed  by  the  dying  words  of 
Isabel,  is  living  in  the  same  world  with  me  ?  Amid 
all  the  perplexities  that  haunt  me  as  I  wander  from 
the  present  to  the  future,  the  thought  of  her  image, 


EVENING.  249 

of  her  smile,  of  her  last  kind  adieu,  throws  a  dash 
of  sunlight  upon  my  path. 

And  yet  why  ?  Is  it  not  very  idle  ?  Years  have 
passed  since  I  have  seen  her  ;  I  do  not  even  know 
where  she  may  be.  What  is  she  to  me  ? 

My  heart  whispers,  "  Very  much !  "  —  but  I  do 
not  listen  to  that  in  my  prouder  moods.  She  is 
a  woman,  a  beautiful  woman  indeed,  whom  I  have 
known  once  —  pleasantly  known  ;  she  is  living,  but 
she  will  die,  or  she  will  marry :  I  shall  hear  of  it 
by-and-by,  and  sigh  perhaps,  —  nothing  more.  Life 
is  earnest  around  me,  there  is  no  time  to  delve  in 
the  past,  for  bright  things  to  shed  radiance  on  the 
future. 

I  will  forget  the  sweet  girl  who  was  with  me  upon 
the  ocean,  and  think  she  is  dead.  This  manly  soul 
is  strong,  if  we  would  but  think  so  ;  it  can  make  a 
puppet  of  griefs,  and  take  down  and  set  up  at  will 
the  symbols  of  its  hope. 

—  But  no,  I  cannot ;  the  more  I  think  thus,  the 
less  I  really  think  thus.  A  single  smile  of  that  frail 
girl  —  when  I  recall  it  —  mocks  all  my  proud  pur 
poses,  as  if  without  her  my  purposes  were  nothing, 

Pshaw  !  I  say,  it  is  idle ;  and  I  bury  my 

thought  in  books,  and  in  long  hours  of  toil ;  but  as 
the  hours  lengthen,  and  my  head  sinks  with  fatigue, 
and  the  shadows  of  evening  play  around  me,  there 


250  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

comes  again  that  sweet  vision,  saying  with  tender 
mockery,  "Is  it  idle  ?  "  And  I  am  helpless,  and  am 
led  away  hopefully  and  joyfully  toward  the  golden 
gates  which  open  on  the  Future. 

But  this  is  only  in  those  silent  hours  when  the 
man  is  alone  and  away  from  his  working  thoughts. 
At  mid-day,  or  in  the  rush  of  the  world,  he  puts 
hard  armor  on,  that  reflects  all  the  light  of  such  joy 
ous  fancies.  He  is  cold  and  careless,  and  ready  for 
suffering  and  for  fight. 

One  day  I  am  travelling.  I  am  absorbed  in  some 
present  cares,  thinking  out  some  plan  which  is  to 
make  easier  or  more  successful  the  voyage  of  life. 
I  glance  upon  the  passing  scenery,  and  upon  new 
faces,  with  that  careless  indifference  which  grows 
upon  a  man  with  years,  and  above  all  with  travel. 
There  is  no  wife  to  enlist  your  sympathies,  no  chil 
dren  to  sport  with  ;  my  friends  are  few  and  scattered, 
and  are  working  out  fairly  what  is  before  them  to 
do.  Lilly  is  living  here,  and  Ben  is  living  there ; 
their  letters  are  cheerful,  contented  letters,  and  they 
wish  me  well.  Griefs  even  have  grown  light  with 
wearing  ;  and  I  am  just  in  that  careless  humor  as  if 
I  said,  "Jog  on,  old  world,  — jog  on  !  And  the  end 
will  come  along  soon,  and  we  shall  get — poor  devils 
that  we  are  —  just  what  we  deserve." 

But  on  a  sudden  my  eyes  rest  on  a  figure  that  I 


EVENING.  251 

think  I  know.  Now  the  indifference  flies  like  a 
mist ;  and  my  heart  throbs,  and  the  old  visions 
come  up.  I  watch  her,  as  if  there  were  nothing  else 
to  be  seen.  The  form  is  hers  ;  the  grace  is  hers  ; 
the  simple  dress,  —  so  neat,  so  tasteful,  —  that  is  hers 
too.  She  half  turns  her  head  :  it  is  the  face  that  I 
saw  under  the  velvet  cap  in  the  Park  of  Devon. 

I  do  not  rush  forward  ;  I  sit  as  if  I  were  in  a 
trance.  I  watch  her  every  action,  —  the  kind  atten 
tions  to  her  mother,  who  sits  beside  her, —  her  naive 
exclamations  as  we  pass  some  point  of  surpassing 
beauty.  It  seems  as  if  a  new  world  were  opening 
to  me  ;  yet  I  cannot  tell  why.  I  keep  my  place, 
and  think,  and  gaze.  I  tear  the  paper  I  hold  in  my 
hand  into  shreds.  I  play  with  my  watch-chain,  and 
twist  the  seal  until  it  is  near  breaking.  I  take  out 
my  watch,  look  at  it,  and  put  it  back  ;  yet  I  cannot 
tell  the  hour. 

It  is  she,  I  murmur  ;  I  know  it  is  Carry  ! 

But  when  they  rise  to  leave,  my  lethargy  is 
broken  ;  yet  it  is  with  a  trembling  hesitation  —  a 
faltering  as  it  were  between  the  present  life  and  the 
future  —  that  I  approach.  She  knows  me  on  the 
instant,  and  greets  me  kindly  ;  as  Bella  wrote  — 
very  kindly.  Yet  she  shows  a  slight  embarrass 
ment,  a  sweet  embarrassment,  that  I  treasure  in  my 
heart  more  closely  even  than  the  greeting.  I  change 


252  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

my  course,  and  travel  with  them  ;  now  we  talk  of 
the  old  scenes,  and  two  hours  seem  to  have  made 
with  me  the  difference  of  half  a  lifetime. 

It  is  five  years  since  I  parted  with  her,  never 
hoping  to  meet  again.  She  was  then  a  frail  girl ; 
she  is  now  just  rounding  into  womanhood.  Her 
eyes  are  as  dark  and  deep  as  ever  ;  the  lashes  that 
fringe  them  seem  to  me  even  longer  than  they 
were.  Her  color  is  as  rich,  her  forehead  as  fair, 
her  smile  as  sweet,  as  they  were  before  ;  only  a 
little  tinge  of  sadness  floats  upon  her  eye,  like  the 
haze  upon  a  summer  landscape.  I  grow  bold  to 
look  upon  her,  and  timid  with  looking.  We  talk  of 
Bella :  she  speaks  in  a  soft,  low  voice,  and  the 
shade  of  sadness  on  her  face  gathers,  as  when  a 
summer  mist  obscures  the  sun.  I  talk  in  mono 
syllables  ;  I  can  command  no  other.  And  there  is 
a  look  of  sympathy  in  her  eye,  when  I  speak  thus, 
that  binds  my  soul  to  her  as  no  smiles  could  do. 
What  can  draw  the  heart  into  the  fulness  of  love  so 
quick  as  sympathy  ? 

But  this  passes  ;  we  must  part :  she  for  her  home, 
and  I  for  that  broad  home  that  has  been  mine  so 
long  —  the  world.  It  seems  broader  to  me  than 
ever,  and  colder  than  ever,  and  less  to  be  wished 
for  than  ever.  A  new  book  of  hope  is  sprung  wida 
open  in  my  life  :  a  hope  of  home ! 


EVENING.  2  S3 

We  are  to  meet  at  some  time,  not  far  off,  in  the 
city  where  I  am  living.  I  look  forward  to  that  time 
as  at  school  I  used  to  look  for  vacation  ;  it  is  a 
point  d'appui  for  hope,  for  thought,  and  for  count 
less  journeyings  into  the  opening  future.  Never 
did  I  keep  the  dates  better,  never  count  the  days 
more  carefully,  whether  for  bonds  to  be  paid,  or  for 
dividends  to  fall  due. 

I  welcome  the  time,  and  it  passes  like  a  dream. 
I  am  near  her,  often  as  I  dare ;  the  hours  are  very 
short  with  her,  and  very  long  away.  She  receives 
me  kindly  —  always  very  kindly  ;  she  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  kind.  But  is  it  anything  more? 
This  is  a  greedy  nature  of  ours ;  and  when  sweet 
kindness  flows  upon  us,  we  want  more.  I  know 
she  is  kind  ;  and  yet  in  place  of  being  grateful,  I 
am  only  covetous  of  an  excess  of  kindness. 

She  does  not  mistake  my  feelings,  surely,  —  ah, 
no, — trust  a  woman  for  that!  But  what  have  I, 
or  what  am  I,  to  ask  a  return  ?  She  is  pure  and 
gentle  as  an  angel ;  and  I,  alas,  only  a  private  soldier 
±n  our  world-fight  against  the  Devil.  Sometimes, 
in  moods  of  vanity,  I  call  up  what  I  fondly  reckon 
my  excellences  or  deserts,  —  a  sorry,  pitiful  array, 
that  makes  me  shamefaced  when  I  meet  her.  And 
in  an  instant  I  banish  them  all.  And  I  think,  that 
if  I  were  called  upon  in  some  high  court  of  justice 


254  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

to  say  why  I  should  claim  her  indulgence,  or  her 
love,  I  would  say  nothing  of  my  sturdy  effort  to 
beat  down  the  roughnesses  of  toil,  —  nothing  of 
such  manliness  as  wears  a  calm  front  amid  the 
frowns  of  the  world,  —  nothing  of  little  triumphs  in 
the  every-day  fight  of  life  ;  but  only,  I  would  enter 
the  simple  plea — this  heart  is  hers. 

She  ^eaves  ;  and  I  have  said  nothing  of  what  was 
seething  within  me  :  how  I  curse  my  folly  !  She  is 
gone,  and  never  perhaps  will  return.  I  recall  in 
despair  her  last  kind  glance.  The  world  peems 
blank  to  me.  She  does  not  know,  perhaps  she  does 
not  care,  if  I  love  her.  Well,  I  will  bear  it,  I  say. 
But  I  cannot  bear  it.  Business  is  broken  ;  books 
are  blurred  ;  something  remains  undone  that  fate 
declares  must  be  done.  Not  a  place  can  I  find,  but 
her  sweet  smile  gives  to  it  either  a  tinge  of  glad 
ness,  or  a  black  shade  of  desolation. 

I  sit  down  at  my  table  with  pleasant  books  ; 
the  fire  is  burning  cheerfully  ;  my  dog  looks  up 
earnestly  when  I  speak  to  him  ;  but  it  will  never 
do !  Her  image  sweeps  away  all  these  comforts  in 
a  flood.  I  fling  down  my  book  ;  I  turn  my  back 
upon  my  dog ;  the  fire  hisses  and  sparkles  in  mock 
ery  of  me. 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashes  on  my  brain  :  I  will 
write  to  her,  I  say.  And  a  smile  floats  over  my 


EVENING.  25$ 

face,  —  a  smile  of  hope,  ending  in  doubt.  I  catch 
up  my  pen  —  my  trusty  pen  ;  and  the  clean  sheet 
lies  before  me.  The  paper  could  not  be  better,  nor 
the  pen.  I  have  written  hundreds  of  letters  ;  it  is 
easy  to  write  letters  ;  but  now  it  is  not  easy. 

I  begin,  and  cross  it  out.  I  begin  again,  and  get 
on  a  little  farther ;  then  cross  it  out.  I  try  again, 
but  can  write  nothing.  I  fling  down  my  pen  in  de 
spair,  and  burn  the  sheet,  and  go  to  my  library  for 
some  old  sour  treatise  of  Shaftesbury  or  Lyttleton  ; 
and  say,  —  talking  to  myself  all  the  while,  —  let  her 
go !  She  is  beautiful,  but  I  am  strong  ;  the  world 
is  short ;  we  7—  I  and  my  dog,  and  my  books,  and 
my  pen  —  will  battle  it  through  bravely,  and  leave 
enough  for  a  tombstone. 

But  even  as  I  say  it,  courage  falters  ;  it  is  all  false 
saying !  And  I  throw  Shaftesbury  across  the  room, 
and  take  up  my  pen  again.  It  glides  on  and  on,  as 
my  hope  glows,  and  I  tell  her  of  our  first  meeting, 
and  of  our  hours  in  the  ocean  twilight,  and  of  our  un 
steady  stepping  on  the  heaving  deck,  and  of  that 
parting  in  the  noise  of  London,  and  of  my  joy  at 
seeing  her  in  the  pleasant  country,  and  of  my  grief 
afterward.  And  then  I  mention  Bella,  —  her  friend 
and  mine  ;  I  speak  of  our  last  meeting,  and  of  my 
doubts  ;  and  of  this  very  evening ;  and  how  I  could 
not  write,  and  abandoned  it ;  and  then  felt  something 


256  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

within  me  that  made  me  write  and  tell  her  —  all !  — . 
"That  my  heart  was  not  my  own,  but  was  wholly 
hers,  and  that  if  she  would  be  mine  —  I  would  cher 
ish  her  and  love  her  always  ! " 

Then  I  feel  a  kind  of  happiness —  a  strange,  tu 
multuous  happiness,  into  which  doubt  is  creeping 
from  time  to  time,  bringing  with  it  a  cold  shudder. 
I  seal  the  letter,  and  carry  it  —  a  great  weight  —  for 
the  mail.  It  seems  as  if  there  could  be  no  other 
letter  that  day,  and  as  if  all  the  coaches  and  horses, 
and  cars,  and  boats  were  specially  detailed  to  bear 
that  single  sheet.  It  is  a  great  letter  for  me  ;  my 
destiny  lies  in  it. 

I  .do  not  sleep  well  that  night ;  it  is  a  tossing 
sleep.  One  time,  joy,  sweet  and  holy  joy,  comes  to 
my  dreams,  and  an  angel  is  by  me  ;  another  time, 
the  angel  fades,  the  brightness  fades,  and  I  wake 
struggling  with  fear.  For  many  nights  it  is  so,  un 
til  the  day  comes  on  which  I  am  looking  for  a  reply. 

The  postman  has  little  suspicion  that  the  letter 
which  he  gives  me  —  although  it  contains  no  prom 
issory  notes,  nor  moneys,  nor  deeds,  nor  articles 
of  trade — 'is  yet  to  have  a  greater  influence  upon 
my  life  and  upon  my  future,  than  all  the  letters  he 
has  ever  brought  to  me  before.  But  I  do  not  show 
him  this  ;  nor  do  I  let  him  see  the  clutch  with 
which  I  grasp  it.  I  bear  it,  as  if  it  were  a  great 


EVENING.  257 

and  fearful  burden,  to  my  room.  I  lock  the  door, 
and  having  broken  the  seal  with  a  quivering  hand, 
read :  — 

The  Letter. 

"PAUL,  — for  I  think  I  may  call  you  so  now,  — I 
know  not  how  to  answer  you.  Your  letter  gave  me 
great  joy  ;  but  it  gave  me  pain  too.  I  cannot  — 
will  not  doubt  what  you  say :  I  believe  that  you 
love  me  better  than  I  deserve  to  be  loved ;  and  I 
know  that  I  am  not  worthy  of  all  your  kind  praises. 
But  it  is  not  this  that  pains  me  ;  for  I  know  that 
you  have  a  generous  heart,  and  would  forgive,  as 
you  always  have  forgiven,  any  weakness  of  mine.  I 
am  proud  too,  very  proud,  to  have  won  your  love  ; 
but  it  pains  me  —  more  perhaps  than  you  will  be 
lieve —  to  think  that  I  cannot  write  back  to  you  as  I 
would  wish  to  write  ;  alas,  never !  " 

Here  I- dash  the  letter  upon  the  floor,  and,  with 
my  hand  upon  my  forehead,  sit  gazing  upon  the 
glowing  coals,  and  breathing  quick  and  loud.  The 
dream  then  is  broken  ! 

Presently  I  read  again :  — 

"You  know  that  rny  father  died  before  we 

had  ever  met.     He  had  an  old  friend  who  had  come 
17 


258  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

from  England,  and  who  in  early  life  had  done  him 
some  great  service,  which  made  him  seem  like  a 
brother.  This  old  gentleman  was  my  godfather, 
and  called  me  daughter.  When  my  father  died,  he 
drew  me  to  his  side  and  said,  '  Carry,  I  shall  leave 
you,  but  my  old  friend  will  be  your  father ; '  and 
he  put  my  hand  in  his  and  said,  '  I  give  you  my 
daughter.' 

"  This  old  gentleman  had  a  son,  older  than  my 
self  ;  but  we  were  much  together,  and  grew  up  as 
brother  and  sister.  I  was  proud  of  him,  for  he  was 
tall  and  strong,  and  every  one  called  him  handsome. 
He  was  as  kind,  too,  as  a  brother  could  be  ;  and  his 
father  was  like  my  own  father.  Every  one  said  and 
believed  that  we  would  one  day  be  married ;  and 
my  mother  and  my  new  father  spoke  of  it  openly. 
So  did  Laurence,  for  that  is  my  friend's  name. 

"I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  any. more,  Paul;  for 
when  I  was  still  a  girl,  we  had  promised  that  we 
would  one  day  be  man  and  wife.  Laurence  has 
been  much  in  England  ;  and  I  believe  he  is  there 
now.  The  old  gentleman  treats  me  still  as  a  daugh 
ter,  and  talks  of  the  time  when  I  shall  come  and 
live  with  him.  The  letters  of  Laurence  are  very 
kind ;  and  though  he  does  not  talk  so  much  of  our 
marriage  as  he  did,  it  is  only,  I  think,  because  he 
regards  it  as  so  certain. 


EVENING,  259 

"I  have  wished  to  tell  you  all  this  before,  but 
I  have  feared  to  tell  you ;  I  am  afraid  I  have  been 
too  selfish  to  tell  you.  And  now  what  can  I  say? 
Laurence  seems  most  to  me  like  a  brother ;  and  you, 
Paul  —  but  I  must  not  go  on.  For  if  I  marry 
Laurence,  as  fate  seems  to  have  decided,  I  will  try 
and  love  him  better  than  all  the  world. 

"But  will  you  not  be  a  brother,  and  love  me  as 
you  once  loved  Bella?  You  say  my  eyes  are  like 
hers,  and  that  my  forehead  is  like  hers  :  will  you 
not  believe  that  my  heart  is  like  hers  too  ? 

"Paul,  if  you  shed  tears  over  this  letter,  I  have 
shed  them  as  well  as  you.  I  can  write  no  more  now. 

"Adieu." 

I  sit  long,  looking  upon  the  blaze  ;  and  when  I 
rouse  myself  it  is  to  say  wicked  things  against 
destiny.  Again  all  the  future  seems  very  blank.  I 
cannot  love  Carry  as  I  loved  Bella ;  she  cannot  be 
a  sister  to  me  ;  she  must  be  more,  or  nothing. 
Again,  I  seem  to  float  singly  on  the  tide  of  life,  and 
see  all  around  me  in  cheerful  groups.  Everywhere 
the  sun  shines,  except  upon  my  own  forehead. 
There  seems  no  mercy  in  heaven,  and  no  goodness 
for  me  upon  earth. 

I  write,  after  some  days,  an  answer  to  the  letter. 
But  it  is  a  bitter  answer,  in  which  I  forget  myself 


26o  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

—  in  the  whirl  of  my  misfortunes  —  to  the  utter« 
ance  of  reproaches. 

Her  reply,  which  comes  speedily,  is  sweet  and  gen 
tle.  She  is  hurt  by  my  reproaches,  deeply  hurt.  But 
with  a  touching  kindness,  of  which  I  am  not  worthy, 
she  credits  all  my  petulance  to  my  wounded  feel 
ing  ;  she  soothes  me,  but  in  soothing  only  wounds 
the  more.  I  try  to  believe  her  when  she  speaks  of 
her  unworthiness,  but  I  cannot. 

Business,  and  the  pursuits  of  ambition  or  of  in 
terest,  pass  on  like  dull,  grating  machinery.  Tasks 
are  met  and  performed,  with  strength  indeed,  but 
with  no  cheer.  Courage  is  high,  as  I  meet  the  shocks 
and  trials  of  the  world  ;  but  it  is  a  brute,  careless 
courage,  that  glories  in  opposition.  I  laugh  at  any 
dangers,  or  any  insidious  pitfalls  ;  what  are  they  to 
me  ?  What  do  I  possess  which  it  will  be  hard  to 
lose  ?  My  dog  keeps  by  me  ;  my  toils  are  present ; 
my  food  is  ready  ;  my  limbs  are  strong  :  —  what 
need  for  more  ? 

The  months  slip  by  ;  and  the  cloud  that  floated 
over  my  evening  sun  passes. 

Laurence,  wandering  abroad  and  writing  to  Caro 
line  as  to  a  sister,  writes  more  than  his  father  could 
have  wished.  He  has  met  new  faces,  very  sweet 
faces,  and  one  which  shows  through  the  ink  of  his 
later  letters  very  gorgeously.  The  old  gentleman 


EVENING.  261 

does  not  like  to  lose  thus  his  little  Carry,  and  he 
writes  back  rebuke.  But  Laurence,  with  the  letters 
of  Caroline  before  him  for  data,  throws  himself 
upon  his  sister's  kindness  and  charity.  It  aston 
ishes  not  a  little  the  old  gentleman  to  find  his 
daughter  pleading  in  such  strange  way  for  the  son. 
"  And  what  will  you  do  then,  my  Carry  ?  "  the  old 
man  says. 

"  Wear  weeds,    if  you  wish,    sir  ;   and  love 

you  and  Laurence  more  than  ever  !  " 

And  he  takes  her  to  his  bosom,  and  says,  "  Carry, 
Carry,  you  are  too  good  for  that  wild  fellow,  Lau 
rence  ! " 

Now  the  letters  are  different.  Now  they  are  full 
of  hope,  dawning  all  over  the  future  sky.  Business, 
and  care,  and  toil  glide  as  if  a  spirit  animated  them 
all ;  it  is  no  longer  cold  machine-work,  but  intelli 
gent  and  hopeful  activity.  The  sky  hangs  upon  you 
lovingly,  and  the  birds  make  music  that  startles  you 
with  its  fineness.  Men  wear  cheerful  faces ;  the 
storms  have  a  kind  pity  gleaming  through  all  their 
wrath. 

The  days  approach  when  you  can  call  her  yours. 
For  she  has  said  it,  and  her  mother  has  said  it ;  and 
the  kind  old  gentleman,  who  says  he  will  still  be  her 
father,  has  said  it  too  ;  and  they  have  all  welcomed 
you  —  won  by  her  story  —  with  a  cordiality  that  has 


262  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

made  your  cup  full  to  running  over.  Only  one 
thought  comes  up  to  obscure  your  joy  :  Is  it  real? 
or,  if  real,  are  you  worthy  to  enjoy  ?  Will  you  cher 
ish  and  love  always,  as  you  have  promised,  that 
angel  who  accepts  your  word,  and  rests  her  hap 
piness  on  your  faith  ?  Are  there  not  harsh  quali 
ties  in  your  nature  which  you  fear  may  sometime 
make  her  regret  that  she  gave  herself  to  your  love 
and  charity?  And  those  friends  who  watch  over 
her  as  the  apple  of  their  eye,  can  you  always  meet 
their  tenderness  and  approval  for  your  guardian 
ship  of  their  treasure?  Is  it  not  a  treasure  that 
makes  you  fearful  as  well  as  joyful  ? 

But  you  forget  this  in  her  smile  ;  her  kindness, 
her  goodness,  her  modesty  will  not  let  you  re 
member  it.  She  forbids  such  thoughts  ;  and  you 
yield  such  obedience  as  you  never  yielded  even  to 
the  commands  of  a  mother.  And  if  your  business 
and  your  labor  slip  by  partially  neglected,  what 
matters  it  ?  What  is  interest,  or  what  is  reputation, 
compared  with  that  fulness  of  your  heart  which  is 
now  ripe  with  joy? 

The  day  for  your  marriage  comes,  and  you  live  as 
if  you  were  in  a  dream.  You  think  well  and  hope 
well  for  all  the  world.  A  flood  of  charity  seems  to 
radiate  from  all  around  you.  And  as  you  sit  beside 
her  in  the  twilight,  on  the  evening  before  the  dap 


EVENING.  263 

when  you  will  call  her  yours,  and  talk  of  the  com 
ing  hopes,  and  of  the  soft  shadows  of  the  past ;  and 
whisper  of  Bella's  love,  and  of  that  sweet  sister's 
death  ;  and  of  Laurence,  a  new  brother,  coming 
home  joyful  with  his  bride  ;  and  lay  your  cheek  to 
hers,  —  life  seems  as  if  it  were  all  day,  and  as  if 
there  could  be  no  night. 

The  marriage  passes,  and  she  is  yours,  —  yours 
forever. 

New  Travel. 

AGAIN  I  am  upon  the  sea,  but  not  alone.  She, 
whom  I  first  met  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  is  there 
beside  me.  Again  I  steady  her  tottering  step  upon 
the  deck  ;  once  it  was  a  drifting,  careless  pleasure  ; 
now  the  pleasure  is  holy. 

Once  the  fear  I  felt  —  as  the  storms  gathered, 
and  night  came,  and  the  ship  tossed  madly,  and 
great  waves  gathering  swift  and  high  came  down 
like  slipping  mountains,  and  spent  their  force  upon 
the  quivering  vessel  —  was  a  selfish  fear.  But  it  is 
so  no  longer.  Indeed  I  hardly  know  fear  ;  for  how 
can  the  tempests  harm  her  ?  Is  she  not  too  good  to 
suffer  any  of  the  wrath  of  heaven  ? 

And  in  nights  of  calm  —  holy  nights  —  we  lean 
over  the  ship's  side,  looking  down,  as  once  before, 
into  the  dark  depths,  and  murmur  again  snatches  of 


264  REVERIES   OF  A    BACHELOR. 

ocean  song,  and  talk  of  those  we  love  ;  and  we  peer 
among  the  stars,  which  seem  neighborly,  and  as  if 
they  were  the  homes  of  friends.  And  as  the  great 
ocean-swells  come  rocking  under  us,  and  carry  us 
up  and  down  along  the  valleys  and  the  hills  of 
water,  they  seem  like  deep  pulsations  of  the  great 
heart  of  nature,  heaving  us  forward  toward  the  goal 
of  life,  and  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 

We  watch  the  ships  as  they  come  upon  the  hori 
zon,  and  sweep  toward  us,  like  false  friends,  with 
the  sun  glittering  on  their  sails  :  and  then  shift 
their  course,  and  bear  away  —  with  their  bright 
sails  turned  to  spots  of  shadow.  We  watch  the 
long-winged  birds  skimming  the  waves  hour  after 
hour,  like  wayward  thoughts ;  now  dashing  before 
our  bows,  and  then  sweeping  behind  until  they  are 
lost  in  the  hollows  of  the  water. 

Again  life  lies  open,  as  it  did  once  before  ;  but 
the  regrets,  disappointments,  and  fruitless  resolves 
do  not  come  to  trouble  me  now.  It  is  the  future, 
which  has  become  as  level  as  the  sea  ;  and  she  is 
beside  me,  the  sharer  in  that  future,  to  look  out 
with  me  upon  the  joyous  sparkle  of  water,  and  to 
count  with  me  the  dazzling  ripples  that  lie  between 
us  and  the  shore.  A  thousand  pleasant  plans 
come  up,  and  are  abandoned,  like  the  waves  we 
leave  behind  us ;  a  thousand  other  joyous  plans 


EVENING.  265 

dawn  upon  our  fancy,  like  the  waves  that  glitter  be 
fore  us.  We  talk  of  Laurence  and  his  bride,  whom 
we  are  to  meet ;  we  talk  of  her  mother,  who  is  even 
now  watching  the  winds  that  waft  her.  child  over 
the  ocean  ;  we  talk  of  the  kindly  old  man,  her  god 
father,  who  gave  her  a  father's  blessing  ;  we  talk 
low,  and  in  the  twilight  hours,  of  Isabel  —  who 
sleeps. 

At  length,  as  the  sun  goes  down  upon  a  fair 
night  over  the  western  waters  which  we  have 
passed,  we  see  before  us  the  low,  blue  line  of  the 
shores  of  Cornwall  and  Devon.  In  the  night, 
shadowy  ships  glide  past  us  with  gleaming 
lanterns ;  and  in  the  morning  we  see  the  yellow 
cliffs  of  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  standing  out  from 
the  land  is  the  dingy  sail  of  our  pilot.  London, 
with  its  fog,  roar,  and  crowds,  has  not  the  same 
charms  that  it  once  had  ;  that  roar  and  crowd  is 
good  to  make  a  man  forget  his  griefs,  forget  him 
self,  and  stupefy  him  with  amazement.  We  are  in 
no  need  of  such  forgetfulness. 

We  roll  along  the  banks  of  the  sylvan  river  that 
glides  by  Hampton  Court ;  and  we  toil  up  Rich 
mond  Hill,  to  look  together  upon  that  scene  of 
water  and  meadow,  —  of  leafy  copses,  and  glisten 
ing  villas,  —  of  brown  cottages,  and  chistered  ham 
lets,  —  of  solitary  oaks,  and  loitering  herds,  —  all 


266  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

spread  like  a  veil  over  the  rich  valley  of  the  Thames. 
But  we  cannot  linger  here,  nor  even  under  the 
glorious  old  boles  of  Windsor  Forest :  but  we  hurry 
on  to  that  sweet  county  of  Devon,  made  green  with 
its  white  skeins  of  water. 

Again  we  loiter  under  the  oaks  where  we  have 
loitered  before  ;  and  the  sleek  deer  gaze  on  us  with 
their  liquid  eyes,  as  they  gazed  before.  The  squir 
rels  sport  among  the  boughs  as  fearless  as  ever ; 
and  some  wandering  puss  pricks  her  long  ears  at 
our  steps,  and  bounds  off  along  the  hedge-rows  to 
her  burrow.  Again  I  see  Carry  in  her  velvet  rid 
ing-cap,  with  the  white  plume  ;  and  I  meet  her,  as 
I  met  her  before,  under  the  princely  trees  that  skirt 
the  northern  avenue.  I  recall  the  evening  when  I 
sauntered  out  at  the  park-gates,  and  gained  a  bless 
ing  from  the  porter's  wife,  and  dreamed  that 
strange  dream  ;  —  now,  the  dream  seems  more  real 
than  my  life.  "  God  bless  you !  "  said  the  woman 
again. 

—  "Aye,  old  lady,  God  has  blessed  me  !  "  —  and 
I  fling  her  a  guinea,  not  as  a  gift,  but  as  a  debt. 

The  bland  farmer  lives  yet ;  he  scarce  knows  me, 
until  I  tell  him  of  my  bout  around  his  oat-field  at 
the  tail  of  bis  long-stilted  plough.  I  find  the  old 
pew  in  the  parish  church.  Other  holly-sprigs  are 
hung  now  ;  and  I  do  not  doze,  for  Carry  is  beside 


EVENING.  267 

me.  The  curate  drawls  the  service,  but  it  is  pleas 
ant  to  listen  ;  and  I  make  the  responses  with  an 
emphasis  that  tells  more,  I  fear,  for  my  joy  than  foi 
my  religion.  The  old  groom  at  the  mansion  in  the 
Park  has  not  forgotten  the  hard  riding  of  other 
days,  and  tells  long  stories  (to  which  I  love  to  lis 
ten)  of  the  old  visit  of  Mistress  Carry,  when  she  fol 
lowed  the  hounds  with  the  best  of  the  English 
lasses. 

—  "Yer  honor  may  well  be  proud,  for  not  a 
prettier  face,  or  a  kinder  heart,  has  been  in  Devon 
since  Mistress  Carry  left  us  !  " 

But  pleasant  as  are  the  old  woods,  full  of  mem 
ories,  and  pleasant  as  are  the  twilight  evenings 
upon  the  terrace,  we  must  pass  over  to  the  moun 
tains  of  Switzerland.  There  we  are  to  meet  Lau 
rence. 

Carry  has  never  seen  the  magnificence  of  the 
Juras  ;  and  as  we  journey  over  the  hills  between 
Dole  and  the  border  line,  looking  upon  the  rolling 
heights  shrouded  with  pine-trees,  and  down  thou 
sands  of  feet,  at  the  very  road-side,  upon  the  cot 
tage  roofs,  and  emerald  valleys,  where  the  dun  herds 
are  feeding  quietly,  she  is  lost  in  admiration.  At 
length  we  come  to  that  point  above  the  little  town 
of  Gex,  from  which  you  see,  spread  out  before  you, 
the  meadows  that  skirt  Geneva,  the  placid  surface 


268  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

of  Lake  Leman,  and  the  rough,  shaggy  mountains 
of  Savoy ;  and  far  behind  them,  breaking  the  hori 
zon  with  snowy  cap,  and  with  dark  pinnacles,  Mont 
Blanc,  and  the  Needles  of  Chamouni. 

I  point  out  to  her  in  the  valley  below  the  little 
town  of  Ferney,  where  stands  the  deserted  chateau 
of  Voltaire;  and  beyond,  upon  the  shores  of  the 
lake,  the  old  home  of  De  Stael ;  and  across,  with  its 
white  walls  reflected  upon  the  bosom  of  the  water, 
the  house  where  Byron  wrote  the  "Prisoner  of 
Chillon."  Among  the  grouping  roofs  of  Geneva  we 
trace  the  dark  cathedral,  and  the  tall  hotels  shining 
on  the  edge  of  the  lake.  And  I  tell  of  the  time 
when  I  tramped  down  through  yonder  valley,  with 
my  future  all  visionary  and  broken,  and  drank  the 
splendor  of  the  scene,  only  as  a  quick  relief  to  the 
monotony  of  my  solitary  life. 

"And  now,  Carry,  with  your  hand  locked  in 

mine,  and  your  heart  mine,  yonder  lake  sleeping  in 
the  sun,  and  the  snowy  mountains  with  their  rosy 
hue,  seem  like  the  smile  of  Nature,  bidding  us  be 
glad !" 

Laurence  is  at  Geneva :  he  welcomes  Carry  as  he 
would  welcome  a  sister.  He  is  a  noble  fellow,  and 
tells  me  much  of  his  sweet  Italian  wife  ;  and  pre 
sents  me  to  the  smiling,  blushing  —  Enrica  !  She 
has  learned  English  now  ;  she  has  found,  she  says, 


EVENING.  269 

a  better  teacher  than  ever  I  was.  Yet  she  welcomes 
me  warmly,  as  a  sister  jnight ;  and  we  talk  of  those 
old  evenings  by  the  blazing  fire,  and  of  the  one-eyed 
Maestro,  as  children,  long  separated,  might  talk  of 
their  school-tasks  and  of  their  teachers.  She  can 
not  tell  me  enough  of  her  praises  of  Laurence,  and 
of  his  noble  heart.  "You  were  good,"  she  says, 
"  but  Laurence  is  better." 

Carry  admires  her  soft  brown  hair,  and  her  deep 
liquid  eye,  and  wonders  how  I  could  ever  have  left 
Borne? 

Do  you  indeed  wonder,  Carry? 

And  together  we  go  down  into  Savoy,  to  that 
marvellous  valley  which  lies  under  the  shoulder 
of  Mont  Blanc  ;  and  we  wander  over  the  Mer  de 
Glace,  and  pick  Alpine  roses  from  the  edge  of  the 
frowning  glacier.  We  toil  at  nightfall  up  to  the 
monastery  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard,  where  the  new- 
forming  ice  crackles  in  the  narrow  footway,  and  the 
cold  moon  glistens  over  wastes  of  snow,  and  upon 
the  windows  of  the  dark  Hospice.  Again,  we  are 
among  the  granite  heights,  whose  ledges  are  filled 
with  ice,  upon  the  Griinsel.  The  pond  is  dark  and 
cold  ;  the  paths  are  slippery  ;  the  great  glacier  of  the 
Aar  sends  down  icy  breezes,  and  the  echoes  ring 
from  rock  to  rock,  as  if  the  ice-god  answered.  And 
yet  we  neither  suffer  nor  fear. 


270  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

In  the  sweet  valley  of  Meyringen  we  part  from 
Laurence :  he  goes  northward,  by  Grindenwald  and 
Thun,  thence  to  journey  westward,  and  to  make  for 
the  Roman  girl  a  home  beyond  the  ocean.  Enrica 
bids  me  go  on  to  Rome  :  she  knows  that  Carry  will 
love  its  soft,  warm  air,  its  ruins,  its  pictures  and 
temples,  better  than  these  cold  valleys  of  Switzer 
land.  She  gives  me  kind  messages  for  her  mother, 
and  for  Cesare  ;  and  should  we  be  in  Rome  at  the 
Easter  season,  she  bids  us  remember  her,  when  we 
listen  to  the  Miserere,  and  when  we  see  the  great 
Chiesa  on  fire,  and  when  we  saunter  upon  the  Pin- 
cian  Hill,  —  and  remember  that  it  is  her  home. 

We  follow  them  with  our  eyes  as  they  go  up  the 
steep  height  over  which  falls  the  white  foam  of  the 
clattering  Reichenbach  ;  and  they  wave  their  hands 
toward  us,  and  disappear  upon  the  little  plateau 
which  stretches  toward  the  crystal  Rosenlaui,  and 
the  tall,  still  Engel-Horner. 

May  the  mountain  angels  guard  them  ! 

As  we  journey  on  toward  that  wonderful  pass  of 
Spliigen,  I  recall  by  the  way,  upon  the  heights  and 
in  the  valleys,  the  spots  where  I  lingered  years 
before.  Here,  I  plucked  a  flower  ;  there,  I  drank 
from  that  cold,  yellow  glacier  water ;  and  here, 
upon  some  rock  overlooking  a  stretch  of  broken 
mountains,  hoary  with  their  eternal  frosts,  I  sat 


EVENING.  271 

musing  upon  that  very  Future  which  is  with  me 
now.  But  never,  even  when  the  ice  Genii  were 
most  prodigal  of  their  fancies  to  the  wanderer,  did 
I  look  for  more  joy,  or  a  better  angel. 

Afterward,  when  all  our  trembling  upon  the 
Alpine  paths  has  gone  by,  we  are  rolling  along 
under  the  chestnuts  and  lindens  that  skirt  the  banks 
of  ComD.  We  recall  that  sweet  story  of  Manzoni, 
and  I  point  out,  as  well  as  I  may,  the  loitering 
place  of  the  brain,  and  the  track  of  poor  Don  Ab- 
bondio.  We  follow  in  the  path  of  the  discomfited 
Renzi,  to  where  tho  dainty  spire  and  pinnacles  of 
the  Duomo  of  Milan  glisten  against  the  violet  sky. 

Carry  longs  to  see  Venico  ;  its  water-streets  and 
palaces  have  long  floated  in  her  visions.  In  the 
bustling  activity  of  our  own  country,  and  in  the 
quiet  fields  of  England,  that  strange,  half-deserted 
capital,  lying  in  the  Adriatic,  has  taken  the  strong 
est  hold  upon  her  fancy. 

So  we  leave  Padua  and  Verona  behind  us,  and 
find  ourselves  upon  a  soft  spring  noon  upon  the  end 
of  the  iron  road  which  stretches  across  the  lagoon 
toward  Venice.  With  the  hissing  of  steam  in  the 
ear,  it  is  hard  to  think  of  the  wonderful  city  we  are 
approaching.  But  as  we  escape  from  the  carriage, 
and  set  our  feet  down  into  one  of  those  strange, 
hearse-like,  ancient  boats,  with  its  sharp  iron  prow, 


272  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

and  listen  to  the  melodious,  rolling  tongue  of  the 
Venetian  gondolier  ;  — as  we  see  rising  over  the 
watery  plain  before  us  —  all  glittering  in  the  sun  — 
tall,  square  towers  with  pyramidal  tops,  and  clus 
tered  domes,  and  minarets,  and  sparkling  roofs  lift 
ing  from  marble  walls,  —  all  so  like  the  old  paint 
ings ; — and  as  we  glide  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
floating  wonder  under  the  silent  working  oar  of  our 
now  silent  gondolier ;  —  as  we  ride  up  swiftly  under 
the  deep,  broad  shadows  of  palaces,  and  see  plainly 
the  play  of  the  sea-water  in  the  crevices  of  the 
masonry,  and  turn  into  narrow  rivers  shaded  dark 
ly  by  overhanging  walls,  hearing  no  sound  but  of 
voices,  or  the  swaying  of  the  water  against  the 
houses,  —  we  feel  the  presence  of  the  place.  And 
the  mystic  fingers  of  the  Past,  grappling  our  spirits 
lead  them  away,  willing  and  rejoicing  captives, 
through  the  long  vista  of  the  ages  that  are  gone. 

Carry  is  in  a  trance,  —  rapt  by  the  witchery  of 
the  scene  into  dream.  This  is  her  Venice  ;  nor 
have  all  the  visions,  that  played  upon  her  fancy, 
been  equal  to  the  enchanting  presence  of  this  hour 
of  approach. 

Afterward  it  becomes  a  living  thing,  stealing 
upon  the  affections  and  upon  the  imagination  by 
a  thousand  coy  advances.  We  wander,  under  the 
warm  Italian  sunlight,  to  the  steps  from  which 


EVENING.  273 

rolled  the  white  head  of  poor  Marino  Faliero.  The 
gentle  Carry  can  now  thrust  her  ungloved  hand 
into  the  terrible  Lion's  mouth.  We  enter  the  salon 
of  the  fearful  Ten,  and  peep  through  the  half- 
opened  door  into  the  cabinet  of  the  more  fearful 
Three.  We  go  through  the  deep  dungeons  of  Car- 
magnola  and  of  Carrara  ;  and  we  instruct  the  will 
ing  gondolier  to  push  his  dark  boat  under  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs  ;  and  with  Eogers's  poem  in  our 
hand,  glide  up  to  the  prison-door,  and  read  of  — 

*'  that  fearful  closet  at  the  foot 
Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  came, 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span 
An  iron  door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  life !  " 

I  sail,  listening  to  nothing  but  the  dip  of  the 
gondolier's  oar,  or  to  her  gentle  words,  fast  under 
the  palace-door  which  closed  that  fearful  morning 
on  the  guilt  and  shame  of  Bianca  Capello.  Or, 
with  souls  lit  up  by  the  scene  into  a  buoyancy  that 
can  scarce  distinguish  between  what  is  real  and 
what  is  merely  written,  we  chase  the  anxious  step 
of  the  forsaken  Corinna  ;  or  seek  among  the  vet 
eran  palaces  the  casement  of  the  old  Brabantio, 
—  the  chamber  of  Desdemona,  —  the  house  of 
Jessica  ;  and  trace  among  the  strange  Jew  money- 
18 


274  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

changers,  who  yet  haunt  the  Rialto,  the  likeness 
of  the  bearded  Shylock.  We  wander  into  stately 
churches,  brushing  over  grass  or  tell-tale  flowers 
that  grow  in  the  court,  and  find  them  damp  and 
cheerless  ;  the  incense  rises  murkily,  and  rests  in  a 
thick  cloud  over  the  altars,  and  over  the  paintings ; 
the  music,  if  so  be  that  the  organ  notes  are  swelling 
under  the  roof,  is  mournfully  plaintive. 

Of  an  afternoon  we  sail  over  to  the  Lido,  to  glad 
den  our  eyes  with  a  sight  of  land  and  green  things, 
and  we  pass  none  upon  the  way  save  silent  oars 
men,  with  barges  piled  high  with  the  produce  of 
their  gardens,  pushing  their  way  down  toward  tho 
floating  city.  And  upon  the  narrow  island  we  find 
Jewish  graves,  half  covered  by  drifted  sand  ;  and 
from  among  them  watch  the  sunset  glimmering 
over  a  desolate  level  of  water.  As  we  glide  back, 
lights  lift  over  the  Lagoon,  and  double  along  the 
Giudecca  and  the  Grand  Canal  The  little  neighbor 
isles  will  have  their  company  of  lights  dancing  in 
the  water;  and  from  among  them  will  rise  up 
against  the  mellow  evening  sky  of  Italy,  gaunt, 
unlighted  hoTises. 

After  the  nightfall,  which  brings  no  harmful  dew 
with  it,  I  stroll,  with  her  hand  within  my  arm,  —  as 
once  upon  the  sea,  and  in  the  English  Park,  and  in 
the  home-land,  —  over  that  great  Square  which  lies 


EVENING.  275 

before  the  palace  of  St.  Mark's.  The  white  moon  is 
riding  in  the  middle  heaven  like  a  globe  of  silver ; 
the  gondoliers  stride  over  the  echoing  stones  ;  and 
their  long,  black  shadows,  stretching  over  the  pave 
ment,  or  shaking  upon  the  moving  water,  seem  like 
great  funereal  plumes  waving  over  the  bier  of  Venice. 

Carrying  thence  whole  treasures  of  thought  and 
fancy  to  feed  upon  in  the  after-years,  we  wander  to 
Rome. 

I  find  the  old  one-eyed  Maestro,  and  am  met 
with  cordial  welcome  by  the  mother  of  the  pretty 
Enrica.  The  Count  has  gone  to  the  Marches  of 
Ancona.  Lame  Pietro  still  shuffles  around  the 
boards  at  the  Lepre,  and  the  flower- sellers  at  the 
corner  bind  me  a  more  brilliant  bouquet  than  ever 
for  a  new  beauty  at  Rome.  As  we  ramble  under 
the  broken  arches  of  the  great  aqueduct  stretching 
toward  Frascati,  I  tell  Carry  the  story  of  my  trip  in 
the  Apennines,  and  we  search  for  the  pretty  Car- 
lotta.  But  she  is  married,  they  tell  us,  to  a  Neapol 
itan  guardsman.  In  the  spring  twilight  we  wander 
upon  those  heights  which  lie  between  Frascati  and 
Albano,  and  looking  westward,  see  that  glorious 
view  of  the  Campagna  which  can  never  be  forgot 
ten.  But  beyond  the  Campagna,  and  beyond  the 
huge  hulk  of  St.  Peter's,  heaving  into  the  sky  from 
the  middle  waste,  we  see  —  or  fancy  we  see  —  a 


276  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

glimpse  of  the  Waters  which  stretch  out  and  on  to 
the  land  we  love  better  than  Rome.  And  in  fancy 
we  build  up  that  home  which  shall  belong  to  us 
on  the  return,  —  a  home  that  has  slumbered  long 
in  the  future,  and  which,  now  that  the  future  has 
come,  lies  fairly  before  me. 

Home. 

YEAES  seem  to  have  passed.  They  have  mellowed 
life  into  ripeness.  The  start,  and  change,  and  hot 
ambition  of  youth  seem  to  have  gone  by.  A  calm 
and  joyful  quietude  has  succeeded.  That  future, 
which  still  lies  before  me,  seems  like  a  roseate  twi 
light  sinking  into  a  peaceful  and  silent  night. 

My  home  is  a  cottage  near  that  where  Isabel  once 
lived.  The  same  valley  is  around  me  ;  the  same 
brook  rustles  and  loiters  under  the  gnarled  roots 
of  the  overhanging  trees.  The  cottage  is  no  mock 
cottage,  but  a  substantial,  wide-spreading  cottage, 
with  clustering  gables  and  ample  shade,  —  such  a 
cottage  as  they  build  upon  the  slopes  of  Devon. 
Vines  clamber  over  it,  and  the  stones  show  mossy 
through  the  interlacing  climbers.  There  are  low 
porches  with  cosy  arm-chairs,  and  generous  oriels 
fragrant  with  mignonette  and  the  blue  blossoming 
violets. 


EVENING.  277 

The  chimney-stacks  rise  high,  and  show  clear 
against  the  heavy  pine-trees  that  ward  off  the  blasts 
of  winter.  The  dove-cote  is  a  habited  dove-cote,  and 
the  purple-necked  pigeons  swoop  around  the  roofs 
in  great  companies.  The  hawthorn  is  budding  into 
its  June  fragrance  along  all  the  lines  of  fence,  and 
the  paths  are  trim  and  clean.  The  shrubs  —  our 
neglected  azalias  and  rhododendrons  chiefest  among 
them  —  stand  in  picturesque  groups  upon  the  close- 
shaven  lawn. 

The  gaterway  in  the  thicket  below  is  between 
two  mossy  old  posts  of  stone  ;  and  there  is  a  tall 
hemlock,  flanked  by  a  sturdy  pine,  for  sentinel. 
Within  the  cottage  the  library  is  wainscoted  with 
native  oak ;  and  my  trusty  gun  hangs  upon  a 
branching  pair  of  antlers.  My  rod  and  nets  are 
disposed  above  the  generous  book-shelves  ;  and  a 
stout  eagle,  once  a  tenant  of  the  native  woods,  sits 
perched  over  the  central  alcove.  An  old-fashioned 
mantel  is  above  the  brown  stone  jambs  of  the  coun 
try  fireplace,  and  along  it  are  distributed  records  of 
travel,  —  little  bronze  temples  from  Rome,  the  pie- 
tro  duro  of  Florence,  the  porcelain  busts  of  Dres 
den,  the  rich  iron  of  Berlin,  and  a  cup  fashioned 
from  a  stag's  horn,  from  the  Black  Forest  by  the 
Rhine. 

Massive  chairs  stand  here  and  there  in  tempting 


278  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR. 

attitude  ;  strewed  over  an  oaken  table  in  the  middle 
are  the  uncut  papers  and  volumes  of  the  day  ;  and 
upon  a  lion's  skin  stretched  before  the  hearth  is 
lying  another  Tray. 

But  this  is  not  all.  There  are  children  in  the 
cottage.  There  is  Jamie;  —  we  think  him  hand 
some,  for  he  has  the  dark  hair  of  his  mother,  and 
the  same  black  eye  with  its  long,  heavy  fringe. 
There  is  Carry,  —  little  Carry  I  must  call  her  now, 
—  with  a  face  full  of  glee,  and  rosy  with  health. 
Then  there  is  a  little  rogue  some  two  years  old, 
whom  we  call  Paul,  —  a  very  bad  boy,  as  we  tell  him. 

The  mother  is  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and  far  more 
dear  to  me  ;  for  gratitude  has  been  adding,  year  by 
year,  to  love.  There  have  been  times  when  a  harsh 
word  of  mine,  uttered  in  the  fatigues  of  business, 
has  touched  her  ;  and  I  have  seen  that  soft  eye  fill 
with  tears ;  and  I  have  upbraided  myself  for  caus 
ing  her  one  pang.  But  such  things  she  does  not 
remember,  —  or  remembers  only  to  cover  with  her 
gentle  forgiveness. 

Laurence  and  Enrica  are  living  near  us.  And 
the  old  gentleman,  who  was  Carry's  godfather,  sits 
with  me  on  sunny  days  upon  the  porch,  and  takes 
little  Paul  upon  his  knee,  and  wonders  if  two  such 
daughters  as  Enrica  and  Carry  are  to  be  found  in 
the  world.  At  twilight  we  ride  over  to  see  Lau- 


EVENING.  279 

rence :  Jamie  mounts  with  the  coachman ;  little 
Carry  puts  on  her  wide-rimmed  Leghorn  for  the 
evening  visit ;  and  the  old  gentleman's  plea  for 
Paul  cannot  be  denied.  The  mother  too  is  with 
us ;  and  old  Tray  comes  whisking  along,  now 
frolicking  before  the  horses'  heads,  and  then  bound 
ing  off  after  the  flight  of  some  belated  bird. 

Away  from  that  cottage  home  I  seem  away  from 
life.  Within  it,  that  broad  and  shadowy  future, 
which  lay  before  me  in  boyhood  and  in  youth,  is 
garnered,  like  a  fine  mist  gathered  into  drops  of 
crystal 

And  when  away,  those  long  letters,  dating  from 
the  cottage  home,  are  what  tie  me  to  life.  That 
cherished  wife  —  far  dearer  to  me  now  than  when 
she  wrote  that  first  letter,  which  seemed  a  dark 
veil  between  me  and  the  future  —  writes  me  now 
as  tenderly  as  then.  She  narrates,  in  her  delicate 
way,  all  the  incidents  of  the  home-life  ;  she  tells  me 
of  their  rides,  and  of  their  games,  and  of  the  new- 
planted  trees,  —  of  all  their  sunny  days,  and  of 
their  frolics  on  the  lawn  ;  she  tells  me  how  Jamie 
is  studying,  and  of  little  Carry's  beauty,  growing 
every  day,  and  of  roguish  Paul  —  so  like  his  father  ! 
And  she  sends  me  a  kiss  from  each  of  them  ;  and 
bids  me  such  adieu,  and  such  "God's  blessing," 
that  it  seems  as  if  an  angel  guarded  us. 


280  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

But  this  is  not  all ;  for  Jamie  has  written  a  post 
script 

"  Dear  Father,"   he   says,   "  mother   wishes 

me  to  tell  you  how  I  am  studying.  What  would 
you  think,  father,  to  have  me  talk  in  French  to  you, 
when  you  come  back  ?  I  wish  you  would  come 
back  though  ;  the  crocuses  are  coming  out,  and  the 
apricot  under  my  window  is  all  full  of  blossoms. 
If  you  should  bring  me  a  present,  as  you  almost 
always  do,  I  would  like  a  fishing-rod. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"  JAMIE." 

And  little  Carry  has  her  fine,  rambling  characters 
running  into  a  second  postscript. 

"  Why  don't  you  come,  papa  ;  you  stay  too  long. 
I  have  ridden  the  pony  twice  ;  once  he  most  threw 
me  off.  This  is  all  from  CARRY." 

And  Paul  has  taken  the  pen  too,  and  in  his 
extraordinary  effort  to  make  a  big  P,  has  made  a 
very  big  blot.  And  Jamie  writes  under  it,  — 
"  This  is  Paul's  work,  Pa ;  but  he  says  it's  a  love- 
blot,  only  he  loves  you  ten  hundred  times  more." 

And  after  your  return,  Jamie  will  insist  that  you 
should  go  with  him  to  the  brook,  and  sit  down  with 


EVENING.  281 

him  upon  a  tussock  by  the  bank,  to  fling  off  a  line 
into  the  eddies,  though  only  the  nibbling  roach  are 
sporting  below.  You  have  instructed  the  workmen 
to  spare  the  clumps  of  bank-willows,  that  the  wood- 
duck  may  have  a  covert  in  winter,  and  that  the  Bob- 
o'-Lincolns  may  have  a  quiet  nesting-place  in  the 
spring. 

Sometimes  your  wife  —  too  kind  to  deny  such 
favor  —  will  stroll  with  you  along  the  meadow 
banks,  and  you  pick  meadow-daisies  in  memory  of 
the  old  time.  Little  Carry  weaves  them  into  rude 
chaplets,  to  dress  the  forehead  of  Paul ;  and  they 
dance  along  the  greensward,  and  switch  off  the 
clover  heads,  and  blow  away  the  dandelion  seeds,  to 
see  if  their  wishes  are  to  come  true  ;  Jamie  holds 
a  buttercup  under  Carry's  chin,  to  find  if  she  loves 
gold  ;  and  Paul,  the  rogue,  teases  them  by  sticking 
a  thistle  into  sister's  curls. 

The  pony  has  hard  work  to  do  under  Carry's  swift 
riding  ;  but  he  is  fed  by  her  own  hand  with  the 
cold  breakfast-rolls.  The  nuts  are  gathered  in 
time,  and  stored  for  long  winter  evenings,  when  the 
fire  is  burning  bright  and  cheerily,  —  a  true,  hick 
ory  blaze,  which  sends  its  waving  gleams  over 
eager,  smiling  faces,  and  over  well-stored  book 
shelves  and  portraits  of  dear  lost  ones.  While  from 
time  to  time  that  wife,  who  is  the  soul  of  the  scene, 


232  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

will  break  upon  the  children's  prattle,  with  the  sil 
ver  melody  of  her  voice,  running  softly  and  sweetly 
through  the  couplets  of  Crabbe's  stories,  or  the 
witchery  of  the  Flodden  Tale. 

Then  the  boys  will  guess  conundrums,  and  play 
at  fox-and-geese  ;  and  Tray,  cherished  in  his  age, 
and  old  Milo,  petted  in  his  dotage,  lie  side  by  side 
upon  the  lion's  skin  before  the  blazing  hearth. 
Little  Tomtit  —  the  goldfinch  —  sits  sleeping  on 
his  perch,  or  cocks  his  eye  at  a  sudden  crackling  of 
the  fire  for  a  familiar  squint  upon  our  family  group. 

But  there  is  no  future  without  its  straggling 
clouds.  Even  now  a  shadow  is  trailing  along  the 
landscape. 

It  is  a  soft  and  mild  day  of  summer.  The  leaves 
are  at  their  fullest.  A  southern  breeze  has  been 
blowing  up  the  valley  all  the  morning,  and  the 
light,  smoky  haze  hangs  over  the  distant  mountain- 
gaps  like  a  veil  on  beauty.  Jamie  has  been  busy 
with  his  lessons,  and  afterward  playing  with  Milo 
upon  the  lawn.  Little  Carry  has  come  in  from  a 
long  ride,  —  her  face  blooming,  and  her  eyes  all 
smiles  and  joy.  The  mother  has  busied  herself 
with  those  flowers  she  loves  so  well.  Little  Paul, 
they  say,  has  been  playing  in  the  meadow,  and  old 
Tray  has  gone  with  him. 


EVENING.  283 

But  at  dinner-time,  Paul  does  not  come  back. 

"Paul  ought  not  to  ramble  off  so  far,"  I  say. 

The  mother  says  nothing  ;  but  there  is  a  look  of 
anxiety  upon  her  face  that  disturbs  me.  Jamie  won 
ders  where  Paul  can  be,  and  he  saves  for  him  —  what 
ever  he  knows  Paul  will  like  —  a  heaping  plateful. 
But  the  dinner-hour  passes,  and  Paul  does  not 
come.  Old  Tray  lies  in  the  sunshine  by  the  porch. 

Now  the  mother  is  indeed  anxious.  And  I, 
though  I  conceal  this  from  her,  find  my  fears 
strangely  active.  Something  like  instinct  guides 
me  to  the  meadow  ;  I  wander  down  the  brook-side, 
calling  —  Paul !  Paul !  But  there  is  no  answer. 

All  the  afternoon  we  search,  and  the  neighbors 
search  ;  but  it  is  a  fruitless  toil.  There  is  no  joy 
that  evening  :  the  meal  passes  in  silence  ;  only  little 
Carry,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  asks  if  Paul  will  soon 
come  back  ?  All  the  night  we  search  and  call :  the 
mother,  even,  braving  the  night-air,  and  running 
here  and  there,  until  the  morning  finds  us  sad  and 
despairing. 

That  day  —  the  next  —  cleared  up  the  mystery  ; 
but  cleared  it  up  with  darkness.  Poor  little  Paul ! 
he  has  sunk  under  the  murderous  eddies  of  the 
brook !  His  boyish  prattle,  his  rosy  smiles,  his 
artless  talk,  are  lost  to  us  forever  ! 

I  will  not  tell  how,  nor  when,  we  found  him  ;  nor 


284  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

will  I  tell  of  our  desolate  home,  and  of  her  grief  — 
the  first  crushing  grief  of  her  life. 

The  cottage  is  still.  The  servants  glide  noiseless, 
as  if  they  might  startle  the  poor  little  sleeper.  The 
house  seems  cold,  very  cold.  Yet  it  is  summer 
weather  ;  and  the  south  breeze  plays  softly  along 
the  meadow,  and  softly  over  the  murderous  eddies 
of  the  brook. 

Then  comes  the  hush  of  burial.  The  kind 
mourners  are  there  ;  —  it  is  easy  for  them  to  mourn ! 
The  good  clergyman  prays  by  the  bier :  — "  O 
Thou,  who  didst  take  upon  thyself  human  woe,  and 
drank  deep  of  every  pang  in  life,  let  thy  Spirit  come 
and  heal  this  grief,  and  guide  toward  that  Better 
Land,  where  justice  and  love  shall  reign,  and  hearts 
laden  with  anguish  shall  rest  for  evermore !  " 

Weeks  roll  on  ;  and  a  smile  of  resignation  lights 
up  the  saddened  features  of  the  mother.  Those 
dark  mourning-robes  speak  to  the  heart  deeper  and 
more  tenderly  than  ever  the  bridal  costume.  She 
lightens  the  weight  of  your  grief  by  her  sweet 
words  of  resignation.  "Paul,"  she  says,  "  God  has 
taken  our  boy ! " 

Other  weeks  roll  on.  Joys  are  still  left  —  great 
and  ripe  joys.  The  cottage  smiling  in  the  autumn 
sunshine  is  there ;  the  birds  are  in  the  forest 


EVENING.  285 

boughs  ;  Jamie  and  little  Carry  are  there  ;  and  she, 
who  is  more  than  them  all,  is  cheerful  and  content. 
Heaven  has  taught  us  that  the  brightest  future  has 
its  clouds,  that  this  life  is  a  motley  of  lights  and 
shadows.  And  as  we  look  upon  the  world  around 
us,  and  upon  the  thousand  forms  of  human  misery, 
there  is  a  gladness  in  our  deep  thanksgiving. 

A  year  goes  by ;  but  it  leaves  no  added  shadow 
on  our  hearth-stone.  The  vines  clamber  and 
flourish;  the  oaks  are  winning  age  and  grandeur. 
Little  Carry  is  blooming  into  the  pretty  coyness  of 
girlhood ;  and  Jamie,  with  his  dark  hair  and  flash 
ing  eyes,  is  the  pride  of  his  mother. 

There  is  no  alloy  to  pleasure  but  the  remem 
brance  of  poor  little  Paul.  And  even  that,  chast 
ened  as  it  is  with  years,  is  rather  a  grateful 
memorial  that  our  life  is  not  all  here,  than  a  grief 
that  weighs  upon  our  hearts. 

Sometimes,  leaving  little  Carry  and  Jamie  to  their 
play,  we  wander  at  twilight  to  the  willow-tree 
beneath  which  our  drowned  boy  sleeps  calmly  for 
the  Great  Awaking.  It  is  a  Sunday  in  the  week 
day  of  our  life  to  linger  by  the  little  grave,  —  to 
hang  flowers  upon  the  head-stone,  and  to  breathe  a 
prayer  that  our  little  Paul  may  sleep  well  in  the 
arms  of  Him  who  loveth  children. 


286  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

And  her  heart,  and  my  heart,  knit  together  by 
sorrow  as  they  had  been  knit  by  joy,  —  a  silver 
thread  mingled  with  the  gold,  —  follow  the  dead 
one  to  the  Land  that  is  before  us,  until  at  last  we 
come  to  reckon  the  boy  as  living  in  the  new  home 
which,  when  this  is  old,  shall  be  ours  also.  And 
my  spirit,  speaking  to  his  spirit  in  the  evening 
watches,  seems  to  say  joyfully, — so  joyfully  that 
the  tears  half  choke  the  utterance,  —  "  Paul,  my 
boy,  we  will  be  there  !  " 

And  the  mother,  turning  her  face  to  mine,  so 
that  I  see  the  moisture  in  her  eye,  and  catch  its 
heavenly  look,  whispers  softly,  —  so  softly  that  an 
angel  might  have  said  it,  —  "  Yes,  dear,  we  will  be 
THERE !  " 

The  night  had  now  come,  and  my  day  under  the 
oaks  was  ended.  But  a  crimson  belt  yet  lingered 
over  the  horizon,  though  the  stars  were  out. 

A  line  of  shaggy  mist  lay  along  the  surface  of  the 
brook.  I  took  my  gun  from  beside  the  tree,  and 
my  shot-pouch  from  its  limb,  and  whistling  for 
Carlo,  —  as  if  it  had  been  Tray,  —  I  strolled  over 
the  bridge,  and  down  the  lane,  to  the  old  house 
under  the  elms. 

I  dreamed  pleasant  dreams  that  night; — for  I 
dreamed  that  my  Reverie  was  real. 


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